Dead-center horizon lines are banal, agreed, but the best outdoorsy photos, paintings and cinematic compositions are about whatever works, depending on the ingredients…the mystical altogether, balance and intrigue…God’s eye is God’s eye, and horizon lines be damned. I’ve been snapping photos since I was 12 or 13 so don’t tell me, John Martin Feeney.

Over the last 15 days, three industry advocates in the award-season conversation — Hollywood Elsewhere’s Jeffrey Wells, Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman and Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone — have endorsed the idea of Spider-Man: No Way Home being Best Picture nominated.

I was first out of the gate on 12.20.21, Gleiberman followed 11 days later later (12.31.21) and Stone followed Gleiberman three days after his post. Gleiberman is the heaviest hitter among us, agreed, and his Variety think-piece essays are confined to a weekly format.

1. “If The Academy Has Any Interest…” / 12.20.21 / Note: This is probably when I got Omicron — during a 12.16 viewing at the AMC Grove.

2. “Why The Academy Should Nominate ‘Spider-Man for Best Picture,” Variety’s Owen Gleiberman, 12.31.21 / https://variety.com/2021/film/columns/spider-man-no-way-home-oscars-analysis-best-picture-1235145184/

3. “Yes, Spider-Man Should Be Nominated — It’s a No-Brainer,” posted on 1.3.22 / https://www.awardsdaily.com/2022/01/01/yes-spider-man-should-be-nominated-for-best-picture-its-a-no-brainer/

Others have since picked up on this notion (in some cases disputing it, especially among the advocates of hothouse-flower nominees) but WE STARTED IT! Just saying!

That Greenpeace banner allegedly hanging outside Trump Tower in Las Vegas and lambasting Donald Trump for betraying the Kurds is presumedly a deepfake. Not to diminish the horror of the Syrian-Kurd-ISIS situation, but as long as we’re talking deepfakes I prefer the below variation.

Laurent Bouzereau and Mark Harris‘s Five Came Back, a brilliant three-hour doc about the transformative experiences of five name-brand Hollywood directors (John Ford, Frank Capra, William Wyler, George Stevens and John Huston) during World War II, premiered last night on Netflix. Please see it, and if at all possible in a single sitting. Here’s my 3.22 review.

That said, I’m obliged to re-irrigate a dispute between Harris, author of the same-titled 2014 book, and Ford biographer Joseph McBride about the doc’s claim that Ford’s service as a WWII documentarian-propagandist basically ended after he went on a three-day bender following the D-Day invasion.

In a 3.23 HE piece called “Ford’s Bravery, Drinking, Sentimentality,” McBride articulated his dispute with Harris based on Harris’ book vs. what McBride had reported in “Searching for John Ford,” a respected 2001 biography.

But yesterday McBride doubled down and then some after seeing the Netflix series [see below] and taking it all in. I naturally passed his complaint along to Harris. Harris came back this morning with a stern and specific reply [also below].

L.A. Times film critic Kenneth Turan has written an agreeable travel piece about a recent pilgrimage he made to Monument Valley, largely in tribute to his memories of seven John Ford films that were shot there — Stagecoach, My Darling Clementine, Fort Apache She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers, Sergeant Rutledge and Cheyenne Autumn.

And of course, Turan follows the herd by describing or discussing Monument Valley only in terms of the staggering beauty of the place and not once about the whopping absurdity of any 19th Century settlers living in Monument Valley because it has (a) no grass for cattle to graze on, (b) no rich soil to grow crops with (it’s all sandy, desert-type moon dust with rugged cactus and sage brush-type plants), (c) no big river running through it, and (d) no forest to invade and cut down trees to build log cabins and make lumber with with…no nothin’ in the way of life-sustaining, community-building elements of any kind.

Or at least, none that I’ve been able to notice in watching all these Ford films. Not a damn thing except worthless scenic beauty. And none of the Ford worshippers have ever complained about this…not once. Or have I missed something?

[Initially posted on 7.16.15] This may not pass muster with traditional Western devotees (i.e, readers of Cowboys & Indians) but arguably one of the most influential westerns ever made is Johnny Concho (’56), a stagey, all-but-forgotten little film that Frank Sinatra starred in and co-produced. For this modest black-and-white enterprise was the first morally revisionist western in which a big star played an ethically challenged lead character — i.e., a cowardly bad guy.

The conventional line is that Marlon Brando‘s One-Eyed Jacks was the first western in which a major star played a gunslinging outlaw that the audience was invited to identify or sympathize with — a revenge-driven bank robber looking to even the score with an ex-partner (Karl Malden‘s “Dad” Longworth) who ran away and left Brando’s “Rio” to be arrested and sent to prison.

This opened the door, many have noted, to Paul Newman‘s rakishly charming but reprehensible Hud Bannon in Martin Ritt‘s Hud two years later, and then the Spaghetti westerns of Sergio Leone (beginning with ’64’s A Fistful of Dollars) and particularly Clint Eastwood‘s “Man With No Name.”

But before One-Eyed Jacks audiences were presented with at least three morally flawed western leads portrayed by name-brand actors. First out of the gate was Sinatra’s’s arrogant younger brother of a notorious gunslinger in Concho. This was followed in ’57 by Glenn Ford‘s Ben Wade, a charmingly sociopathic gang-leader and thief, in Delmer Daves‘ 3:10 to Yuma. And then Paul Newman‘s Billy the Kid in Arthur Penn‘s The Left-Handed Gun (’58).

Yesterday I devoted a few sentences to the legend of Glenn Ford, who was quite the compulsive hound in his prime. That’s what it says, at least, in his son Peter‘s biography, “Glenn Ford: A Life.”

The discussion became a bit heated when HE commenter “johnlsullivan” shared a dim view of Ford’s shenanigans. “Ford was also the only husband of the 4-years-older, tap-dancing legend Eleanor Powell from 1943 (when her career was winding down) to 1959. Can’t imagine what her life must have been like, retired from musicals and married to an asshat who cheats every time he walks out the door.”

HE to Sullivan: “Did I say Ford was a ‘compulsive philanderer’? I said that in his ‘40s to early ‘60s heyday he was ‘Mr. Bone.’ There’s a difference.”

Sullivan to HE: “Uh, if he was married almost the entire time, that by definition makes him ‘a compulsive philanderer.'”

HE to Sullivan: “A philanderer is someone who routinely cheats on a spouse — he/she is first and foremost defined by the marriage and the cheating. Philandering isn’t so much about what he’s doing as what he’s failing to do.

“Glenn Ford seems to have been less defined by cheating (as in ‘I can’t do this’ or ‘I’m just not the marrying kind’) and more defined or led along by the siren songs of eros and rapture. He was Ulysses strapped to the main mast, and the sirens were singing and he was powerless to resist.

“It’s my suspicion that Ford’s urgent and sizable schongola told him what to do, almost as if he had no choice in the matter.

“Ford’s staff of manhood to Ford the actor and husband: “Look, you may be married to Eleanor and a father to Peter, but a glorious, truly breathtaking, never-ending banquet of drop-dead beautiful, alluring, deliciously naked, fascinating, enticingly perfumed, devastating women are out there for the relatively easy sampling and seducing. And I’m telling you that you don’t have an actual choice. You might think you do, but you don’t.

“It’s the ’40s and ’50s and ’60s, after all…you can get away with stuff that would literally get you killed in the post-#MeToo era. Just be polite and gracious and deferential and you’ll be fine. Be kind and considerate and nurturing to Eleanor and Peter…take care of them, be a good provider and father and care-giver. Once you have that covered, you’re free to pick as much fruit from the trees as you can.”

“Trust me when I say that when you’re on your deathbed at age 90, what you’ll regret the most won’t be the things you did as much as the things you didn’t do.”

Sullivan to HE: “It’s not adultery if you’re well-endowed.”

Glenn Ford is one of those classic-studio-era movie stars whom nobody seems to care much for today. Even I don’t care much for the guy.

My favorite Ford films are not So Ends Our Night, Gilda, The Big Heat, Teahouse of the August Moon or The Blackboard Jungle. My favorites are actually Cowboy, Cimarron and especially Experiment In Terror.

Ford’s career peaked in the ’40s and ’50s; he seemed to fall off a cliff in the mid ’60s. He died at age 90 on 8.30.06.

What I honestly didn’t know until an hour ago was that off-screen Ford’s life was, to borrow a Quentin Tarantino-ism, largely about dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick.

According to “Glenn Ford: A Life,” a 2001 bio by his son Peter, the allegedly well-endowed Ford put the high hard one to no fewer than 146 actresses during his heyday, and that’s not counting the little side affairs that are never written about.

The biggest extra-marital love of Ford’s life was Rita Hayworth; their off-and-on, 40-year affair began during the filming of Gilda and lasted until the ’80s.

Ford also “knew” Maria Schell, Geraldine Brooks, Stella Stevens, Gloria Grahame, Gene Tierney, Eva Gabor, Judy Garland, Connie Stevens, Suzanne Pleshette, Rhonda Fleming, Roberta Collins, Hope Lange, Susie Lund, Terry Moore, Angie Dickinson, Debbie Reynolds, Jill St. John, Brigitte Bardot, Loretta Young and Barbara Stanwyck.

He allegedly had a one-nighter with Marilyn Monroe in ’62, and did a duh-doo-ron-ron with Joan Crawford in the early 1940s. Ford’s affair with stripper and cult actress Liz Renay was mentioned in her 1991 book “My First 2,000 Men.”

Last night I watched John Farrow: Hollywood’s Man in the Shadows, a 96-minute doc about the prolific, under-rated Australian-born director. Farrow made scores of better-than-decent, lower-budgeted films (The Big Clock, Five Came Back, Calcutta, His Kind of Woman, Hondo). A skilled and dependable craftsman, he directed no drop-dead masterpieces but was great with long takes.

Married for 20-odd years to Maureen O’Sullivan while constantly catting around, the Roman Catholic Farrow sired seven children, including Mia Farrow.

Co-directors Claude Gonzalez and Frans Vandenburg have delivered a respectable effort, often edifying if less than fully satisfying, for reasons I’ll try to explain.

The sage talking heads include Australian directors Phillip Noyce, Bruce Beresford and Philippe Mora, plus film critics Todd McCarthy, David Thomson, David Stratton, Margaret Pomeranz, Imogen Sara Smith and Farran Smith Nehme. Hollywood biographer Charles Higham and Farrow’s wry look-alike son, John Charles Farrow, also participate.

I’m not a serious Farrow devotee but I respect his assurance and sense of polish and control, and his extra-long takes are Scorsese– or Coppola-level.

I’m as much of a fan of The Big Clock as the next guy. Vincent Price’s performance in His Kind of Woman is one of my all-time camp favorites of the ’40s, and Five Came Back (’39), a crashed-in-the-jungle survival story with Lucille Ball, is a keeper. I’m trying to recall if I saw Farrow’s 1956 remake, Back From Eternity. And the 3-D, John Wayne-starring Hondo is pretty good.

I understand why producer Mike Todd fired Farrow off the direction of Around the World in 80 Days (i.e., Todd wanted a less headstrong director, someone he could push around) but why exactly did Farrow lose the King of Kings gig? The filmmakers couldn’t explore that?

Farrow losing two high-paying 1950s prestige gigs in the space of five years is odd. It alludes to an imperious, uncooperative manner.

Was Farrow’s 1963 heart attack a genetic thing? Was it due to alcohol abuse? Farrow was only 58 when he passed — a relatively early departure for a man who wasn’t overweight.

How many years ago was this doc shot? The answer seems to be “not recently.” Three, four years ago for the most part? More?

Why don’t the filmmakers simply mention where the Farrow family lived in Bel Air? How could that be a violation of anyone’s privacy so many decades after the fact? The home was built for Farrow & O’Sullivan in ‘37.

The elephant in the room, of course, is the absence of Mia Farrow and Ronan Farrow, and especially Mia.

I gather she didn’t participate due to negative feelings about her philandering, possibly emotionally abusive dad, and Ronan undoubtedly passed out of deference to his mom, but really? Mia refuses to sit for an interview because her Catholic father cheated on her mom with “dozens” of women during the heyday of the ‘40s and ‘50s, and she doesn’t want to endorse or seem blasé about that? In the context of her own checkered sexual history, Mia is hardly in a position to judge or throw stones. Very odd. Sexual indulgence and even perversity is seemingly baked into the Farrow clan’s DNA.