Arts Reviews

The arrest of Jonathan Majors last weekend, which resulted in his being charged with several assault and harassment misdemeanor charges — despite his lawyer announcing he is “completely innocent and is probably the victim of an altercation with a woman he knows” — is one of the more surprising developments in recent popular culture. Majors, who recently appeared as the arch-villain Kang in the latest Marvel picture Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, has been progressing steadily towards superstardom for some time, starring as the antagonist in the third Creed film and appearing in a series of ads for the US Army. Those commercials have since been pulled, with a spokesman declaring that the Army was “deeply concerned by the allegations.

Hollywood is America’s greatest export. Yet most museums either fixate on the industry’s tawdriness, as with the Hollywood Museum’s preservation of Marilyn Monroe’s pill bottle, or prioritize indie films over the artistic yet popular movies of Old Hollywood. MoMa’s film program can get so lost in Sundance obscurity that you wouldn’t know movies were a popular art form. When the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences — aka the group that gives out the Oscars — opened the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures in Los Angeles, Americans hoped an intuition would finally document the products, people and dreams pumped out of La La Land. But the space was so preoccupied with twenty-first-century politics that it failed to honor the Jewish immigrants who built the damn town.

Throughout his career, director Quentin Tarantino has been admirably consistent about his ambition to make ten films — no more, no less — and then move on to other fields. He once stated, “I like that I will leave a ten-film filmography… it’s not etched in stone, but that is the plan. If I get to the tenth, do a good job and don’t screw it up, well that sounds like a good way to end the old career.” He was savvy enough to include a caveat: “if, later on, I come across a good movie, I won’t not do it just because I said I wouldn’t.” He concluded, “But ten and done, leaving them wanting more — that sounds right.

Chris Rock was paid $20 million for his seventy-minute Netflix special, so by my reckoning his riff on whether or not the British royal family are racist must have made him more than a million quid. Was it worth the money? Well, I enjoyed it but I’m not sure how well it will translate here, in precis, with all the swearing removed. Rock begins by pointing up the absurdity of Meghan Markle (winner of the "lightskin lottery," he says) complaining to Oprah: "I didn’t know how racist they were." "It’s the royal family!" expostulates Rock. "They’re the OGs [Original Gangstas] of racism. They’re the Sugarhill Gang of racism." (The 1980s cultural references give you an idea of the age of Rock’s mostly black audience at the live recording in Baltimore.

Growing up, one of my favorite books was Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet, the story of a boy whose plane crash-lands in the Canadian wilderness and who must then fend for survival with only a single tool. 65 tries to pull off something similar, but with dinosaurs and sci-fi weapons. And bizarrely enough, it's a far better B-movie than it has any right to be. Yes, the setup of this film is seriously convoluted. Adam Driver stars as Mills, a long-haul space shipper who works for a spacefaring human civilization based on a planet other than Earth. When his vessel collides with an unexpected asteroid belt, he’s forced to crash-land on Earth — 65 million years before the present day. That’s right: this film takes place a long time ago, but in a galaxy not quite so far away.

It was ordained months ago that this year’s Academy Awards were going to be dominated by Everything Everywhere At Once, and so it has proved spectacularly. The film has taken seven awards, including Best Film, Best Director, Best Actress, Best Screenplay and Best Supporting Actor. While I was not one of the fans of the duo Daniels’s picture — multiverse spanning fantasy films are not exactly my bag, whether they’re made by Marvel or the hipper-than-hip indie company A24 — it’s still a distinctive and original work of cinema, albeit less likely to be regarded as a future classic than Todd Field’s magnificent Tár, which went home empty-handed. It may well be that Tár’s magnetic star Cate Blanchett lost to EEAO’s Michelle Yeoh for reasons of optics as much as ability.

When Mel Gibson’s ultra-violent, ultra-religious Passion of the Christ made $612 million worldwide, it was not earning its money from teenagers looking for a night out. Despite its R rating, churchgoers were being bused to theaters by the millions, thanks to the heavy support it received from evangelical Christian groups. Everyone from Billy Graham and Jerry Falwell to Pat Robertson and Chuck Colson came out in support of the film, although the Pope’s supposed endorsement — "it is as it was" — was denied by the Vatican. Yet faith-based films have quietly been big business in Hollywood for decades now.

John Heilemann, the shiny-headed former journalist best known for collaborating with Mark Halperin of sexual harassment fame, and who now operates as a hype man for political scam artists like Steve Schmidt and Michael Avenatti, went viral this weekend for his desperate, cloying defense of the corporate media on HBO's Real Time With Bill Maher. Facing off against actor, comedian and sex enthusiast Russell Brand, Heilemann found himself in the unenviable position of being a man in a Joy Division T-shirt with a recent hand tattoo standing up for the cause of Morning Joe and the cast of rebellious media rapscallions housed at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. It did not go well. https://twitter.com/ggreenwald/status/1632095569152811008?

If, in the spring of 1923, you’d somehow found yourself in the tumbleweed junction of Spokane, Washington, you might have shaken the dust from your feet at the strange and magnificent Davenport Hotel. Still standing today, this vast folly, soaring up in the middle of town like a gaudily iced wedding cake, was evidently greeted by cries of disbelief upon its opening in 1914. In the rural west of the early twentieth century, the Davenport was the last word in luxury and refinement. The lobby was a work of art in itself, with lamps in alabaster shells mounted on a twisted bronze column in each corner, and an Italian marble fountain set under a chandelier that tilted at a slightly drunken angle, like one of those ghostly photographs taken onboard the wreck of the Titanic.