The Hollywood Bowles

Those who can't write, edit. Those who can't edit, blog. Operating at a loss since 2014.

I am no longer convinced the midterm elections will even take place.

I am not convinced martial law won’t be declared. I am not convinced ICE won’t be dispatched to minority voting districts. I am not convinced every vote will be collected and counted without interference from the government in power.

And I have reasons to worry.

On August 31, Donald Trump extended a national emergency concerning foreign interference in elections. The order itself does not cancel voting. But it comes as election officials prepare for possible federal interference and voting rights groups brace for the presence of ICE near polling places. The November 3 elections are 23 days away. These are extraordinary circumstances for an ordinary American election.

And I suspect millions of Americans would welcome an excuse to cancel it. Because I don’t think half the country wants this election.

I think they know what an awful president Donny Dickhead has been. I think they know what his policies have cost them. And I think they cannot afford the repercussions of their own stupidity.

The evidence is in their grocery bills, in their bank accounts, in their monthly budgets.

A new Reuters/Ipsos poll has Trump’s approval at 32 percent, with Democrats leading Republicans by 7 points among registered voters. Another Reuters/Ipsos survey found that 78 percent of Americans blame Trump’s policies for rising costs, including most Republicans.

Think about it. The cost of living. ICE invading neighborhoods. Tariffs. A war with Iran driving up energy prices. Those are consequences Americans can measure.

And the political consequences could be just as substantial: House control, subpoena power, investigations that could expose decisions the administration would rather keep buried.

But I don’t think millions of Trump supporters want to confront that. I think they would rather find someone else to blame.

I think what drives too many Republicans is this: It does not matter how much they are hurting, as long as the libs are hurting more.

That is punishment as policy.

Your grocery bill doubles? Fine, provided somebody else’s is worse. Your neighborhood becomes a federal enforcement zone? Fine, provided immigrants suffer more. Your country enters another war? Fine, provided your political enemies lose.

The cruelty becomes the reward.

I cannot prove half the country would support canceling an election. No credible poll says that. Plenty of Republicans would oppose such a thing.

But I wonder how many would object if Trump announced that national security required “extraordinary measures.” How many would demand proof? How many would applaud?

Trump already tried to overturn one election he lost.

Now, consider November 3. Imagine ICE outside polling places in heavily Latino neighborhoods. Imagine federal authorities demanding access to ballots. Imagine an emergency declared days before voting.

These are fears, not established plans. Federal law restricts such actions. Laws require enforcement, and enforcement requires people willing to stand up.

An election imposes accountability, but accountability means admitting mistakes, and I suspect too many Americans would rather sacrifice an election than admit they made one.

I hope November 3 proves me completely wrong. I hope every American who wants to vote gets to vote. I hope every lawful ballot gets counted. I hope the losers accept the results.

But I have never been less certain.

I used to worry about who would win an American election. Now I worry about whether America will allow one.

How I Got These Scars

The first was a downward stroke
by an uppity Father
convinced he held the grace,
mistaking force for blessing.

Years later the sky clarified herself:
weather, blood, accident, law,
the cold machinery turning beautifully in the dark.
No judgment in it.
No mercy either.

Only consequence and light.
So the faces remain,
one carrying the blow,
one carrying the question.

Morning enters the room
empty-handed.
I pour into both.

Tom Cruise spent the last decade teaching audiences exactly what a Tom Cruise movie means.

Digger asked them to forget that.

That may explain more than anything why Alejandro González Iñárritu’s $125 million-plus black comedy collapsed this weekend, opening to just $8 million in the United States and Canada and $20 million worldwide. It finished fifth. For Cruise, it marked his weakest opening since Lions for Lambs in 2007.

The numbers look worse once you understand the movie. Cruise plays Digger Rockwell, a fabulously wealthy Texas oil baron whose Arctic drilling operation triggers an environmental catastrophe. A glacier breaks loose. Europe faces devastating tsunamis. Digger, a man accustomed to bending politicians and markets to his will, launches a frantic attempt to cast himself as humanity’s savior from the disaster he helped create.

Iñárritu folds the story into a theatrical meta-narrative about power, art and whether satire can accomplish anything beyond entertaining people who already understand the joke.

That sounds like a $20 million specialty film. But Hollywood spent blockbuster money on it.

Published estimates put the production cost at roughly $125 million, with some reports placing it substantially higher. That comes before a major global marketing campaign. The movie runs a little over two hours, carries an R rating and attacks climate denial, corporate greed, political cowardice and the culture built around wealthy men who assume their money proves their genius.

Then Warner Bros. put Tom Cruise in the middle and assumed Tom Cruise solved any commercial problem.

He created one instead.

Cruise has become one of the clearest brands in movies. His recent hits rarely ask audiences to wonder what they are buying. Mission: Impossible promises velocity. Top Gun: Maverick promised fighter jets, nostalgia and Cruise pushing machinery past sane limits. The star runs. He flies. He climbs. He saves everybody.

The audience understands the transaction before they buy a ticket.

Digger reverses it. Cruise wears prosthetics and gray hair. He adopts a Texas accent. He plays arrogance instead of competence. He embodies the kind of billionaire whom Ethan Hunt might normally spend two hours trying to stop.

That is a risky artistic choice, and a dangerous commercial one. Cruise had made himself into a genre. Warner Bros. treated him like a movie star.

There is a difference.

Movie stars once carried audiences from westerns to romances to courtroom dramas largely on the strength of their names. Modern stars increasingly work inside franchises and established screen identities. Cruise may be the strongest surviving exception, but even he built his recent drawing power around a remarkably specific promise: practical spectacle performed by Tom Cruise at considerable risk to Tom Cruise.

Digger offers Tom Cruise sitting in rooms arguing about environmental apocalypse.

The marketing faced an impossible problem because the movie itself resists a clean sales pitch. Is it a comedy? A political satire? An ecological nightmare? An Oscar vehicle? A grotesque character study? A piece of metafiction about the failure of political art?

The answer appears to be yes.

Hollywood often confuses awareness with desire. People know Tom Cruise. They know Iñárritu. They may have seen the ads. None of that means they wanted this movie.

Hollywood often confuses awareness with desire. People know Tom Cruise. They know Iñárritu. They may have seen the ads. None of that means they wanted this movie.

Hollywood often confuses awareness with desire. People know Tom Cruise. They know Iñárritu. They may have seen the ads. None of that means they wanted this movie.

Hollywood often confuses awareness with desire. People know Tom Cruise. They know Iñárritu. They may have seen the ads. None of that means they wanted this movie.

The deeper mistake came when the studio confused Cruise’s fame with permission. Audiences gave Cruise permission to hang from airplanes, leap motorcycles from cliffs and save civilization. They never promised to follow him anywhere.

Digger found that border.

The most anticipated documentary of the 21st century may be film’s most telling shrug.

You Can See Everything, directed by Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim, was made in secret over nearly four years. It premiered without warning at the Telluride Film Festival on September 6, then played a single screening at the New York Film Festival. People reportedly lined up outside Lincoln Center before dawn. It opens Oct. 16.

The film follows Elizabeth Holmes during the 34 days before she reported to federal prison. In 2023, she invited a film crew into her Southern California home, where she lived with her partner, Billy Evans, and their children.

The story has already been told. Theranos claimed it could perform hundreds of medical tests from a few drops of blood. The technology failed. Holmes misled investors. A jury convicted her of fraud. She received an 11-year prison sentence.

The question now is not what Elizabeth Holmes did. The question is what happens when she meets Nathan Fielder.

This is a clash between two professional manipulators.

Fielder has spent his career bending reality until people reveal themselves. Holmes spent hers bending reality until investors believed in a machine that did not work.

Fielder manipulates circumstances. Holmes manipulates belief. Put them in the same room and you have a documentary with a premise so strange that it sounds invented.

Fielder creates situations that look spontaneous but are carefully engineered. He adopts a flat, literal persona and lets people wander into their own absurdity. He offers them a stage, then watches what they do with it.

His comedy depends on control. He controls the premise. He controls the environment. He controls the edit. He understands that people often expose themselves when they believe they are managing the room.

Holmes operated differently. Her manipulation was not a comic experiment. It was a business model. She sold a vision of medical technology before the technology existed. She converted confidence into evidence. She made ambition sound like achievement. She wrapped failure in futurism and asked powerful people to suspend their disbelief.

Fielder manufactures unreality so that the truth can emerge. Holmes manufactured unreality so that the truth would stay hidden.

That is the collision at the heart of the film.

The access alone is astonishing. Holmes had spent seven years largely absent from the media. Then she invited Nathan Fielder into her home. He reportedly lived in the guesthouse and observed the family’s daily life. What began as an intimate portrait became a nearly three-hour investigation into Holmes’s personal mythology.

Holmes insists she has always been honest. She says she has never told a lie. That claim is more interesting than a confession would be.

A conventional liar knows the difference between fact and fiction. Holmes seems to occupy a more complicated territory. She appears to have built a private definition of truth in which intention matters more than performance and potential matters more than results.

The Theranos machine, she argues, was theoretically capable of performing more than 1,000 medical tests. The tests themselves simply had not been developed.

That distinction sounds absurd because it is absurd. A car capable of traveling 10,000 miles per hour remains imaginary if it has no engine capable of producing that speed. A medical machine capable of performing thousands of tests remains imaginary if it cannot perform them.

Yet Holmes appears to have lived inside the distinction.

This may be the film’s central question: Can a person deceive the world so completely that she eventually deceives herself? And will that world believe in her worldview?

The danger is that Holmes could manipulate the documentary into becoming another platform for her mythology. The opportunity is that Fielder may finally meet someone who cannot be directed, softened or neatly decoded.

One manipulator studies the other. Fielder turns awkwardness into entertainment. Holmes turned certainty into capital. Neither has much use for ordinary reality. And when they meet, the audience has to decide who is studying whom.

The most unsettling possibility is that both of them leave the room believing they won.


Steven Spielberg makes movies the way other directors make promises.

“Disclosure Day” begins where the UAP hearings left off. Congress gave Unidentified Aerial Phenomena its bureaucratic name, retired the UFO, and left the harder question unasked. Spielberg asks it. Not whether we are alone, but what becomes of us the moment we find out we are not.

Emily Blunt plays a Kansas City TV anchor who begins experiencing the uncanny firsthand. She is extraordinary. She makes you believe something impossible is happening to a woman who cannot quite believe it herself. Josh O’Connor, Colman Domingo, and Colin Firth fill out a cast that Spielberg handles with the confidence of a director who has forgotten more about performance than most have learned. The script, from longtime collaborator David Koepp, builds its conspiracy with patience and real menace.

The set pieces earn their keep. A train sequence delivers the kind of tactile, old-school tension that digital filmmaking has spent twenty years trying to replicate and mostly failing. John Williams scores it all. Whatever you expect from that combination, double it. Some things age into cliché. This does not.

And yet the aliens here walk upright and carry meaning. They suggest, as Spielberg’s visitors always have, that contact is really about reflection. These are not the grinding machines of “War of the Worlds.” They are inheritors of Roy Neary’s awe and Elliott’s bicycle against the moon. Spielberg has said the creatures might represent humanity 500,000 years forward. That is an intellectually interesting idea. On screen it plays safe.

“Close Encounters of the Third Kind” earned that vision. “E.T.” broke your heart with it. Here it lands more softly than the material deserves.

The film carries a PG-13 rating and feels every bit of it. The edges stay rounded. The wonder arrives on schedule. A director pushing 80, making a film about hope and governmental deception, has every right to sand his corners. The government conspiracy thread runs through the whole picture, rich with current-events resonance, and it deserves a harder landing than it gets. The adult audience this material invites sometimes finds the door only halfway open.

His fascination with beings who look like us, feel like us, and ultimately want the best for us remains his most comfortable idea. It is also his least challenging one. “Close Encounters” and “E.T.” justified that warmth because they left something unresolved. Something strange lived at the edges. You carried it home with you. “Disclosure Day” ties its bow a little too neatly. You leave the theater satisfied rather than haunted.

None of that undoes what works. Blunt commands every scene she enters. The craft is immaculate. Spielberg still knows where to put the camera, when to hold, and when to cut. Those instincts do not age. He has made a lot of movies. He still knows things most directors will never learn. This is the best film he has made in years, and in a career like his, that still means something considerable.

The truth, it turns out, belongs to eight billion people. Some of them wanted it just a little darker.


As HBO’s latest show puts the Penguin front and center, with Colin Farrell taking the reins of Gotham’s most devious bird, it’s easy to see why fans are excited.

He’s iconic, of course—his grotesque figure, his crooked laugh, and his twisted mind make him a standout villain. We’ve seen plenty of portrayals of Oswald Cobblepot over the years, from Burgess Meredith’s waddling menace in the ‘60s to Danny DeVito’s horrifying, fish-munching interpretation in Tim Burton’s “Batman Returns.” And now, thanks to HBO’s deeper dive into his criminal empire, the Penguin is having his moment.

But let’s be clear: He will never top the Joker.

In the pantheon of villains, none have left as indelible a mark on cinema as the Clown Prince of Crime. It’s not just that the Joker is Batman’s archenemy, the yin to the caped crusader’s yang, though that helps. It’s that the Joker, through his various portrayals, has consistently tapped into something deeper—a chaotic madness that mirrors society’s darkest impulses.

And no villain, in any franchise, has been reinterpreted as successfully and provocatively as the Joker.

Cesar Romero’s cheeky Joker gave us the first taste in the campy ‘60s series. He was all bright colors and harmless hijinks, which, for the time, was perfectly fine. But it was Jack Nicholson’s portrayal in Tim Burton’s Batman that first brought the menace into focus, delivering a performance that was equal parts terrifying and humorous. He was the gangster with a twisted grin, a character you could laugh with even while he terrified you.

Then came Heath Ledger, whose take on the Joker in The Dark Knight is simply unforgettable. Ledger didn’t just play the Joker; he became the Joker, and in doing so, crafted one of the greatest performances in film history. He turned the Joker into more than just a villain—he was a force of nature, an embodiment of anarchy, a walking contradiction who didn’t want money or power, just chaos for its own sake. Ledger’s Joker asked us uncomfortable questions about human nature, about the thin line between order and disorder. And that’s why his performance resonates to this day.

Joaquin Phoenix’s turn in Joker took things a step further. His interpretation was less about the chaos and more about the fragile humanity behind the mask. Phoenix’s Arthur Fleck is a man crushed by society, a tragic figure who snaps under the weight of mental illness and neglect. It was a daring, divisive portrayal, and Phoenix deservedly took home an Oscar for it.

Sure, the Penguin is a compelling character, and this HBO series will likely add new layers to his story. Maybe it’ll give him the depth that Joker’s had across all these interpretations.

But there’s a reason Joker is cinema’s greatest recurring villain: he’s adaptable, complex, and eternally relevant. His very nature allows him to be reimagined over and over again, each portrayal reflecting the fears and frustrations of the time.

The Penguin? He’s fun, no question. But he’s still just the second most iconic criminal in Gotham