ME AND MR. ROGERS

I have some friends who are Democrats. Folks who march, protest, volunteer, and donate money. I used to be among their number, but I just cannot bring myself to do any of it anymore.

Will Rogers said it best nearly a hundred years ago when he uttered the quote most associated with his brilliance, “… I don’t belong to any organized political party. I’m a Democrat.”

More often than not… okay, a lot more often than not… okay, I can’t remember voting for a Republican since Earl Warren ran for Governor in California… so, I concede my bias, and admit I vote the Democratic ticket, take solace in political thought put forward by the so-called “Left,” and scoff at their Republican counterparts.

While that remains true for me, I find that I can no longer endorse the lack of political skills, or the dearth of anything resembling the backbone or will of any Democrat to aggressively … and/or effectively… take the battle to their right-wing opposition.

You would think Donald Trump has, of late, made it easy for his political opposition. It should not take a rocket scientist, nor even a subscription to AI to do this. A fight with the Pope!? Posting a picture of yourself as a healing Jesus of Nazareth!?  For Christ’s sake … are you kidding me?

High inflation, an unpopular/unnecessary war, a humongous defeat of his political pal and ally, Victor Orban in Hungary, the regular pardoning of true criminals, including those who pled guilty to their crimes, the “promise” to issue mass pardons to White House staff before he exits the Presidency … all in addition to the obvious/unseemly monetizing of his office. How is it I still have no confidence that the Dems will get their act together and have anything that resembles what happened in Budapest happen here?

Let me take you back to the last inauguration of Donald Trump in January of 2025. It was predictable that this bombastic political animal would go off script… and that, in the process, he might even take to insulting a predecessor or two.

A few rows behind the about-to-be-new commander-in-chief sat Barack Obama, Bill and Hillary Clinton, and President and Mrs. Joe Biden. Sure enough, and early in his speech to boot, Trump began to harangue Joe Biden… not only a still very much alive and only just former… President, but one sitting only feet away.

Had any one of those former Chief Executives simply given a hand signal to his four seatmates, the Clintons and the Bidens and former President Obama could have risen en masse from their chairs and walked out right in the middle of the Trump diatribe.

It would have set a tone. It would have made a statement about what is acceptable in American politics and what is not, and it would have said volumes about the “new Democrats” and their recently discovered backbones.

No one gave that signal… just as no one thought to prepare … or have a plan… for Trump’s latest State of the Union address.

That Trump would be aggressively offensive was once again predictable. Still, neither leaders Jeffries or Schumer could figure out what could be done that would show some strength… some sense of “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore.”

Some party hack came up with the idea of inviting Epstein’s victims to the affair. Did you see them on TV? I sure didn’t. Were they in some kind of uniform? Did they each wear a colorful sash… or scarf… or cap… or something to distinguish them from the throng? None of their hosts thought to have them do that. Was the idea to intimidate The Donald? Lots of luck with that.

This is nothing new with the Dems.  Over twenty years ago, as someone applying to work on the John Kerry for President campaign, I remember learning that Bob Shrum, who was running the campaign for Kerry, would have to approve anything I was to do beyond stuffing envelopes.

I was incredulous.  Forget the fact that in those days it was generally conceded that few had ever been more creative in getting favorable press coverage in the television medium than I, there was the very fact of Shrum himself. How was it possible he could be leading the campaign for Kerry?

Shrum’s previous job was to lead the campaign for Al Gore four years before. Does anyone remember how that turned out? In fact, despite having previously handled the campaigns of a number of different Democratic candidates for President, Mr. Shrum has never had a winner.

Forget the first few, in my line of what it was I used to do for work, if you had a debacle on your list of credits such as Gore v Bush you most likely would never work again… let alone be given the next top job that came along.

As if by way of explanation, the politico witnessing my incredulity at Shrum’s presence in the campaign, simply said,

“..He writes great concession speeches.”

And with that, perhaps it becomes clearer why the party’s symbol is an ass.

 

Barney Rosenzweig

GIVE ME A BREAK … NO, MAYBE NOT

Does the phrase “Mercury is in retrograde” resonate at all? If you need a moment to look it up, I will pause in this narrative; frankly, I could use the break.

Okay … now, having done your research … back to our nearest planetary neighbor. Put aside the fact that entire civilizations have been threatened with extermination and that once again we are going to dig for oil off the coast of California as well as in the Gulf of (I still call it) Mexico. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

In my smaller world, my Island neighbor of over 30 years just passed. He was 97 and not a great advertisement to entice me to go much beyond my present 88 years, but still … a loss, nonetheless. My best friend confronted the recurrence of major cancer (false, alarm… thank you, very much), my spouse fell, fracturing her right leg just below the knee and, and, and … that brings me back to the planet Mercury and whatever the hell it is doing.

There is a theory that we are born with only so many heart beats and when we use them up, we die. Could be. I have come to believe that we are born with a finite limit of stress we can endure and, in my case, just about my entire allotment was used up in California building a career and eventually a television icon out of Cagney & Lacey. 

Worn out at 58 years of age (read my new book, Before and After Cagney & Lacey, out soon from McFarland Publishing) I moved to Miami Beach … as far as I could get from Hollywood while still residing somewhere in the continental United Stateswith a warm beach.

That move was 30 years ago. It has been just over double 30 hours since that leg break and I am already stressed to the max. It is not my spouse. She is a brick. A patient patient, and a good soldier. She is not the problem; it is the new world for which I am not prepared.

Do you know that when you Google the locations for Medical Supply Stores in Miami Beach you get four addresses, none of which are still in business? They just no longer exist. Try to buy a bedpan at a Walgreens or CVS; fuhgeddaboudit. Retail is Amazon and you just tell your spouse to (literally) hold her water until that truck arrives in two or three days.

A wheelchair, a porta potty, a walker? Amazon will get them to you … disassembled. This, for a guy who has trouble figuring out which end of a light bulb gets screwed into … what’s it called?... a socket?

People ask me if I miss show business. Are you kidding me? The only thing I miss is staff. I loved delegating. Now, it seems, I must confront the realization that I am ill-prepared to be the age that I am. Believe me, coming full frontal into that reality is exhausting.

Then again, I could look on the bright side. I do not have to worry as much about our country’s loss of its three branches of government, or the loss of the rule of law, or dirty bombs in suitcases arriving at a baggage claim area as much, or for anywhere nearly as long as my grandkids do. 

As to what’s up next for this television watcher other than the so-called news? In need of a laugh, I turn to late-night. Highest rating for that goes to Jon Stewart on Monday nights’ The DailyShow via Comedy Central. A true comic genius. There is really no one in second or third place compared with him but next in line are the opening monologues of soon-to-be canceled Steven Colbert, on The Late Show (CBS), then Jimmy Kimmel’s opening bit on ABC, followed by Desi Lydic, a periodic host on The Daily Show, then the other Jimmy … Fallon … and his intro of The Tonight Show on NBC. Also on NBC, Saturday Night Live … but only the cold opening and the parody of the “news” (hint: you can high speed through the show and once the musical “artist” is done, next is a commercial and then the only sure-fire thing on the program, the news segment will appear). And last … and most certainly last … is Bill Maher on HBO MAX. If you can stay awake long enough for his New Rules feature which ends the evening, it almost makes sitting through the rest of the show worth watching… almost. 

That’s all folks … except, inquiring minds might ask, what is the opposite of retrograde and when does it occur for Mercury? 

 

 

Barney Rosenzweig

 

SNIPPITS AND SADNESS

 

Dame Jenni Murray passed away in England this week and, although we were not close, she was someone I liked and admired. I met her about 15 years ago, when Cagney & Lacey superfan Jackie Danson put together a British Film Institute celebration/retrospective of my series.

Dame Jenni was the moderator that evening and did a simply fabulous job. It is on video … somewhere. I know I have a copy in one of the overstocked cabinets in my living room, but I did discover that you can easily see 12 minutes (of a much longer evening) on YouTube using this link: https://youtu.be/_OQz7kHIhlg?si=oc2PS6cgrYRKV1yI 

I took a peek at it myself and… even though I was in my Orson Welles phase in terms of body weight (sixty plus pounds more than today), I put my vanity aside, believing this video excerpt is worthy enough to call to your attention.

It was a great evening in London … sold out … with fans lined around the block hoping for the release of some extra seats… somewhere. And, as I recall, those fans stood in that line in the rain. A great night. Thank you, again, Jackie Danson and… thanks and hail and farewell to Dame Jenni.

Did I ever mention that Cagney & Lacey was more even popular in England than it ever was in the U.S.? Not only did it play repeatedly for decades in the UK, but when the BBC held its 50^th anniversary celebration at a gala which included members of the Royal Family, there were but two star/celebrities from the USA invited: Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly. I was there, backstage, that night when Paul McCartney asked Ms. Gless for her autograph.

Other than that quick search for a link to Dame Jenni’s hosting of the BFI tribute, I have been consumed… working 10 hour days doing the heavy lifting of proofing and double-checking my memoir (Before and After Cagney & Lacey) before giving approval to my publishers at McFarland & Company for release. It all must be done, according to the good folks at my publishing house, by month’s end; I am pressing on to make that deadline.

There is, as a result, not a lot of time for casual motion picture or television viewing but I did see the Oscars and thought Conan, the host, did a good job, and that the producers of the evening did even better. I was pleased that, as a predictor of what might or might not win, I had a pretty good night but found that I am still in disbelief that, of all the contenders for best screenplay, the winner was Sinners. Whatever arguable pluses the movie had, that screenplay was not one of them.

On the few occasions I plopped in front of my home screen, my first inclination was not to be overly venturesome. I went to Netflix to return to Outlander to finally complete season 7 of that series. There was a little too much of the second-generation acting ensemble for my tastes. This is doubly negative as their presence comes at the expense of screen-time featuring the two exceptionally talented and attractive original leads. That said, the show is so well done, such nice attention to detail, that except for that bit of a slip of lazy casting, the show is close to perfection. Season 8 of Outlander, including the show’s finale, is on Starz to which I do not subscribe; so, as much as I am looking forward to the conclusion of the series, I will wait for those final episodes of Outlander to join its preceding seven seasons on Netflix.

I watched one episode of The Gray House on Amazon Prime. You cannot pay me to watch another. Terrible on-the-nose writing, mediocre cast, and pedestrian direction. Not worthy of my time... or, I would suggest, yours.

The Madison is a new series from a writer I have come to admire, Taylor Sheridan ... although I am not at all fond of his The Marshalls. Another matter altogether is The Madison. It has the look that I have come to recognize in all of Sheridan’s shows (Yellowstone and Landman as prime examples) and it has Michelle Pfeiffer, Kurt Russell, and an interesting, attractive, and talented group of supporting players along with Sheridan’s insightful character development, plotting, and dialogue.

I have seen four of the six episodes which are now streaming on Paramount + and… while conceding it took me more minutes than I like to get with it… get with it, I did. I will return for more episodes as time and Paramount + allows.

As to “time” and “allowance” … McFarland Publishing House reminds that I must get back to finishing Before and After Cagney & Lacey before any more TV or movie excursions … or, for that matter, another flurry of words representing more notes from my warm Island.

Soon, like Cyberdyne Systems 101, “I’ll be back.”

 

Barney Rosenzweig

…AND THE WINNER IS…

I have finally gotten around to seeing Sentimental Value, which means I have now seen each of the ten films nominated by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for their Oscar Award as Best film for the year 2025.

First things first. Sentimental Value is a very good movie. It is the film If I Had Legs I’d Kick You would like to have been (but isn’t). Good as it is, however, I do not think it wins the award for Best Picture, which begs the question, what will? Here are some thoughts:

Most disappointing or biggest let down (therefore with little chance of getting the big prize): Bugonia, Frankenstein, and F1.

The ones, in my opinion, with absolutely no chance of winning Best Picture, and which should not have been nominated, are The Secret Agent and Train Dreams.

Long shots, but possible winners, include Marty Supreme, Sentimental Value and Sinners with the latter having the best chance, not based on any review I might have written, but based on the number of nominations overall that this movie received. For me, the best of these three would be Sentimental Value, but that would represent a major upset.

Which leaves my top two picks for best pic: Hamnet and One Battle After Another, two very different types of movies. They are, in my opinion, at the top of the heap, and in a dead heat to cop the main prize.

My vote? Hamnet, which means, if you take into account the often times perverse nature of the Academy voter, one should not rule out Train Dreams as the winner.

Onward to more of my personal picks from the pics:

Best Director:  Cholė Zhao for Hamnet. Runner up: Paul Thomas Anderson, One Battle After Another.

Best Actor: Ethan Hawke, Blue Moon. Runner up: Leonardo DiCaprio, One Battle After Another. Michael B. Jordan, who plays twins in Sinners, this season’s box-office surprise, could take it all.

Best Actress: Jessie Buckley, Hamnet. Runner up: there really isn’t one, but a sentimental choice might be Kate Hudson, Song Sung Blue.

Best Supporting Actor: Benicio del Toro, One Battle After Another. Too easy a choice for runner up: Sean Penn, One Battle After Another. My choice for runner up: Stellan Skarsgard, Sentimental Value.

Best Supporting Actress: Teyana Taylor, One Battle After Another. Runner Up: Either of the gals from Sentimental Value (Elle Fanning or Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas).

Best Adapted Screenplay: One Battle After Another. Runner up: Hamnet.

Best Original Screenplay: Sentimental Value. Runner up: Blue Moon.

Best International Feature Film: Sentimental Value. Runner up: The Secret Agent.

Best Casting: Hamnet. Runner up: The Secret Agent or Sinners.

Having seen only one of the five nominated feature-length documentaries, I would normally refrain from comment. Still, it is all but impossible not to make note of Come See Me in the Good Light, featuring poet Andrea Gibson, a truly lovely and loving film that everyone should see. It is everything that Jon Batiste’s American Symphony wanted to be but sorta wasn’t. See it streaming on Apple TV.

And then, I didn’t write… about the more so-called technical awards such as cinematography, editing, production design, costume design, make up and sound. The nominees are all worthy and this is where Frankenstein, Sinners, Bugonia, Marty Supreme, Avatar, F1 can make up a little ground.

Finally, a disclaimer… maybe two. As stated many times, voting members of The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences are often unpredictable… or rather, maybe too predictable in that they often go for the off-beat movie that surprises many serious cinephiles. Secondly, there is no denying the multitude of nominations garnered by Sinners… nor can one look past that film’s success at the box-office. A speculator on the awards-to-be ignores these facts at his/her peril.

The wait is not long. All will be answered, March 15… ABC or streamed on HULU. Enjoy!

 

Barney Rosenzweig

STAR-CROSSED

 

I spent an inordinate amount of time preparing one of those rare political blogs I sometimes write. This one took so long to compose and refine because, in my view at least, it attempted a uniquely clever approach to the near dysfunction of the Democratic party but used the Republican President’s State of the Union speech as a starting point.

As a life-long Democrat, I felt I had some credentials… let alone firsthand experiences… from which I might pontificate. And then we went to war.

Before I could hit “send” … we were bombing…with multiple reports of killing… people in Iran. More than a half dozen of our American Armed Forces were pronounced dead as well. My political piece now seemed somehow too flippant and something that might easily be interpreted as inappropriate.

I hesitated… froze, really. Then I wrote a prequel to the article, hoping to salvage the work I had already done. My prologue was all about my concerns about timing coupled with our desire as a nation to rally round the flag rather than continue discourse about discord.

The Olympics had only just completed; Americans were very united and oozing patriotism. Who am I to rain on that parade?

Prequel and article now combined, I read it… sat on it… and have come to the decision to abandon it. Timing, as is so often said in my erstwhile business, is everything.

After much time spent, my initial feeling that writing about trivial stuff such as television, when major events such as the State of the Union address are monopolizing the ether, had come to not very much.

Except:

Just maybe things are so screwed up… so ill-defined, that this might be a very good time for folks of my generation to back off, to concede any movement… right or left… to the youngsters who most likely will be doing the fighting and dying, as well as having to live their lives with the results. My age group (at least those left of us) it would appear, have, it seems, done more than enough to create the mess we are in, so perhaps… at least in my case… it is best to keep in touch by continuing to specialize in what I am seeing on television, stage, and screen… even if what I have seen is not very good.

A case in point: Stanley Tucci is an actor I have long respected and he is more than okay in the 2023 Netflix/BBC limited series Inside Man, dealing with a most unlikely murder. The whole thing is too cute by half. The good news? There are only four episodes and you could do worse… for instance, you might find yourself watching almost anything on Network TV.

Continuing off-Network, one of my favorite TV series of all-time is Justified from FX. The show, about a modern-day U.S. Marshal, produced from 2010 to 2015, had 78 episodes starring Timothy Olyphant. If you haven’t seen it, you have been deprived of a great treat. There is still time for amends. Justified is streaming these days on Hulu and it should not be missed.

Folks who follow these notes of mine know what a fan I have become of writer Taylor Sheridan… particularly on Landman starring Billy Bob Thornton. The writer is probably best known for the series Yellowstone, which while not as much “my thing” was still very good and a very big hit.

Now… on Paramount +… Marshals, a new series, and a sequel to Yellowstone, written by the very same Taylor Sheridan has come to Sunday nights.

Sorry to say this new series is not worth your time or my anticipation.

As much as I love good writing, I concede there is no substitution for good casting. It is all but impossible to measure what an actor might bring to a character on stage or screen and elevating a supporting player to a lead role is often fraught with opportunities for disappointment.

Do I need to make my point? Hello… there are plenty of bad productions of Hamlet. Let me assure you there is nothing wrong with Shakespeare’s play. The actors who occupy those costumes must deliver at their highest level to properly fulfill the evening.

And then there is chemistry… the marriage of actor and part. Loretta Swit and Meg Foster each took a turn at playing Christine Cagney opposite Tyne Daly in productions of Cagney & Lacey. Both are solid performers, but it took Sharon Gless in that role to elevate that show to becoming a hit series.

Taylor Sheridan writes great dialogue and Billy Bob Thornton knows how to deliver a line. Great combo. Now for the bad news: that just does not happen in Marshals. Not even close.

Betty Comden and Adolph Green said it best in Wonderful Town… “What a waste of money and time….”

 

Barney Rosenzweig

 

END OF THE ROAD?

The first thing that came to mind as I sat at my word processor was how do I write about this without sounding maudlin? I may be many things, but maudlin is not one of them.

And I am not in some kind of funk… quite the contrary… with a few exceptions, I am feeling… and most folks tell me I am looking… much younger than my age which (by the way) is just short of ninety by 22 months.

88… the number of keys on a full sized piano. A double lucky number in the culture of the Chinese. 88 also represents abundance and introspection in numerology, and there is a vast amount of references to the 88 Buddhas in that religion. The Hindustan Times (a journal I feel safe in presuming is probably not on your regular reading list) states:

“… number 88 is often associated with financial wealth; it holds a deeper meaning. It signifies an increase in various forms of abundance, including better health, the development of your skills and talents, and personal growth. This abundance is directly linked to your focus and hard work. If you’ve been actively working towards your goals and dreams, this number serves as confirmation that your efforts will be rewarded.”

That’s a big “if.” At 88, I am none too sure I am actively working toward anything. Whatever, … 88, in ways both good and bad, is what it is I have.

It really is okay. I find that I rather enjoy the moment when I reveal to dinner mates that not only am I the oldest guy in the room, but that I have (usually) been on the planet at least a decade, maybe two, longer than they. There is also the side benefit of younger friends being a partial solution to the problem of having so many of one’s contemporaries passing on.

Alan Trustman (mid-90s) who was not only a big help with my first memoir, Cagney & Lacey… and Me, but who was a neighbor on Fisher Island and a terrific dinner companion, recently died. So did one of Hollywood’s top lawyers, Susan Grode (87), who also helped me with that first memoir. Both of my two college roommates recently passed away as well. Other than my children and grandchildren, those two men were my primary… virtually only… true connection to my native state of California despite it being the place of my birth, multiple marriages, my career, and my formal education (from entry into the public school system at age 4 through graduation from the University of Southern California in 1959).

My second memoir, Before and After Cagney & Lacey, will be out later this year and while preparing an index of names referenced in the book, I came to realize that over 80% of those people mentioned are no longer among the living. The only good news in this is that it substantially reduces the number of folks who might sue me for what I have written.

I awoke from a nap the other day realizing that in my afternoon’s dream I had been visited by my father… twice. You do not have to have read my two memoirs to surmise that my father was not a uniquely significant figure in my life’s story. Aaron Rosenzweig was a decent, good man but not of enough import to invade my sleep. True, he wasn’t asking me to “crossover” or anything like that but nevertheless, I found the “visit” disconcerting.

“… still, thou art blest, compar’d wi me!...” wrote Scottish poet Robert Burns, in his ode to a mouse, continuing, “The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast me e’e, on prospects drear! An forward, tho I canna see, I guess an fear!”

Universal as this meditation on existential dread may be, I don’t think I dwell on the subject to excess. But it does tend to keep me wondering.

There is a time, early in life when you wake up with a pain and resolve to get to the chiropractor or the gym to get it “fixed.” Fifteen or twenty years later, that pain comes along, and you realize that you will most likely have to deal with it for the rest of your life. The next phase is when you wake up with a pain and wonder… is this the thing that will take me out… permanently?

I have come to understand that unless one has a terrible disease, such as cancer or some kind of major organ failure, most of us die relatively unexpectedly without really knowing what hit us. And since most of us have never died before, it is a mystery as to what that thing is that will end it all.

I am in no hurry for anything like the end of days and, always happy to quote from “My life is good,” the Randy Newman lyric which pretty much says it all. Yet I do realize that at 88 the number of years left is most definitely finite. Still, I am not doing much to prepare. True, I had a will drafted… that was years ago. I have a couple of trustworthy executors (decades younger than me, I hasten to add).

I have written about The Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) with whom I have lunch once a week. They are all slightly older than me and each of them talk as if they want to live forever while I continue to scan life’s highways for the right exit ramp.

There are one or two others in my life in this age group. They are, for the most part, attractive and successful gentlemen. I could, I am sure, work harder at getting each of them to philosophize with me about all of this. Of course, that would be an easier assignment if they were not all so hard of hearing.

What’s it all about, Barney? With apologies to Burt Bacharach and Hal David, it just may be the basis for memoir number three… maybe with a piece of cover art featuring that haunting “visit” from dear old dad.

 

 

Barney Rosenzweig

DISAPPOINTMENTS: REAL AND SURREAL

In my review of Hamnet and Jessie Buckley’s award-winningperformance in that motion picture, I put forward the caveat that“I had yet to see Rose Byrne’s performance in If I Had Legs I’dKick You.

Oh, if only that were still true. I would be at least two hours younger and a happier man than I am today.

I will not waste your time (or very much more of mine). The best thing about If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is the title which, incidentally, makes even less sense than why anyone would want to make this movie…let alone watch it.

It isn’t art. It isn’t good. It does nothing to improve the minds of any who might take it in. There is simply no reasonable explanation for this thing to exist.

Let me take some of that back. People seem to like it. I am toldthe HBO audience has given it something like a rating of 91“Rotten Tomatoes.” Could be, or perhaps in this instance, it means 91percent of the viewers threw ripe fruit at their screens. That thought occurred to me more than once while watching.

Someone labeled this thing a “dark comedy.” Trust me, there is nothing funny about it. Wikipedia, which one must presume has some input from the artist herself, seems to focus on Rose Byrnebeing a comedic star. Let me take exception; Ms. Byrne is about as unfunny as anyone I can imagine and although, for me, her career got off to a decent start nearly twenty years ago as the foil for Glenn Close in the exceptionally good TV series Damages;my memory is there were no attempts at humor there either.

 

At the opposite end of the spectrum. I didn’t expect to like Song Sung Blue for a plethora of personal and (turns out) not particularly good reasons. I don’t know why I am not a bigger Neil Diamond fan. Back in the early seventies we lived next door to one another in the Malibu Colony and never had an unpleasant run in. My memory is that he was rarely home and his house guests were easy to have as neighbors.

Diamond’s PR guy was Joe Sutton, a very good pal of mine and one of the original poker group I hosted in what were then my pre-Malibu days in Century City. It was then the 1960s, the very early days of Diamond’s career. Maybe it was because I never “got it,” about Joe’s client and did not honor my friend’s recommendations about Diamond at the dawn of his career at the Troubadour in Hollywood. 

In my defense, the urban persona Diamond projected was totally wrong for what was then my quest for a country singer to play the lead in my fermenting Indy film, Who Fears The Devil. Even so, even I eventually came to learn that it is hardly possible to be more wrong about an artist than I was about this guy who turned out to be “the titan of the Brill Building.”

Hugh Jackman is another performer who is far from the top of any favorites list of mine, and Goldie’s kid, Kate Hudson, is someone whose career highlights had pretty much alluded me…although, come to think of it, I remember being happilysurprised to see her in Nine… one of my very favorite filmed musicals and a homage to the Fellini semi-autobiographical, 8½. 

My recollection is Ms. Hudson was terrific in that 2009 film and there is even more to kvell about in Song Sung Blue.

The movie is based on a documentary of a real-life Neil Diamond tribute act called “Lightning and Thunder,” andalthough it took its own sweet time to get to the really good stuff, the movie … and Ms. Hudson in particular… ultimately come through to pay off the film’s audience, big time. It turnsout Mr. Jackman eventually does some nice work as well. 

Onward: readers of this space may recall that vampire movies have never been my thing. Oh, damn… I let it slip. My bad. I am sure I was not the only one surprised at the… for me out of context blood sucking in the film Sinners. I am sure most went to this flick because of the superstar qualities of Michael B. Jordan, his urban image, the powerful heroic parts he has essayed, including the iconic Black Panther superhero flicks... coupled (you should excuse the expression) with the opportunity to see him play not one, but two parts in this movie. 

With all due deference to the storied career of Denzel Washington, Michael B. Jordan, who I remember first seeingyears ago in The Wire on HBO, just may be the biggest African American movie star in Hollywood today. 

And, big as that all is, it is sorta beside the point, for mid-way through Sinners… without notice, sans set-up, music cue, or any hint or preparation whatsoever, there… in the Jim Crow South… is all this vampire horror stuff where… in this idiom anyway…seems to me the Ku Klux Klan oughta be front and center. 

Forget that I am not a vampire guy. I am, however, a script fella… and the literary part of this offering is sadly lacking in flow, in style, and in anything but exposition; of which, rest assured, there is an abundance. 

The movie looks good, but it sounds terrible. I refer not to the music or those creaky noises that go with the horror genre, but rather what passes for dialogue in scenes that should … in a movie… flow together. In this horror story they simply do not.

And am I being fussy, or may I legitimately ask what is a vampire doing dancing an Irish jig and harboring a Gaelicaccent? Did I miss something in Bram Stoker? Could be. If you do choose to throw caution to the winds and see this movie, make sure to watch to the very end of the more than two and a quarter hours of viewing time… past the credits. It almost makes the rest of the movie worthwhile… almost. 

Barney Rosenzweig