Coppola joins Scorsese, two Italian American movie-making masters who agree, Marvel Movies suck

frank2.jpgScorsese said Marvel  movies weren’t “cinema,” and he wasn’t wrong.

Now Francis Ford Coppola has weighed in with what the tights-wearing “superhero” movies aren’t doing that great movies do.

The “Godfather” of “Godfather” movies calls Marvel movies “despicable.”

Naah. Doesn’t matter what two old, old men, who happen to be the greatest living American filmmakers, say about Marvel or DC or the genre. It’s all about brand, “cool digital fights,” swagger and wisecracks and pandering to the fans, right?

Who cares what the great storytellers have to say about aueteurs like the Russo Brothers?


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Netflixable? “Spivak” finds love in a most unorthodox way


“Spivak” is a hapless indie comedy about the last guy in the world you’d figure would “get the girl.”

Yes, Michael Cera’s in it. No, he’s not the “last guy” this time around.

It’s a “Swingers” that doesn’t swing.

The filmmakers behind “Pumpkin” and “Dead Man on Campus” turn to actor and Tarantino mascot Michael Bacall, whose writing credits (“Scott Pilgrm vs. The World,” “21 Jump Street”) as their anti-hero, the anti-social librarian and would-be writer who is as out of place in L.A. as any shorter, younger version of Steve Buscemi can be.

Wally Spivak lives with roommates, who can’t finish or publish this novel he’s been struggling with for three and a half years, and who crushes on the uninterested Sasha (Chloe Wepper), who has invited him to her “Unlovables” Valentine’s Day Party.

He’s rather go home and sulk. But that means walking past the successful fraud Robby Lebeau (Cera), whose just published memoir, “MacArthur Park’d” is about his days of addiction and sexual hustling at the famous nearby park.

“See the article about me in ‘The Paris Review?’ Just gotta get published, Wally.”

Pals Jesse and Kevin (Mark Webber, Elden Henson) drag him out on Valentine’s Day, figuring they’ll hook up with “desperate” women. That doesn’t exactly work out. Wally just snoozes, which is howw they drag him to Vegas in the wee hours to this place they’ve heard is a “sure thing.”

In the cavernous, empty and cover-charged Elysium, they nurse their drinks as Wally, against all odds, is approached and invited to her room by the first gorgeous woman (Maggie Lawson of TV’s “Psych”). No, she’s not a hooker, his first thought (and ours).

It turns Jeanine is a fellow Angelino about to get married. And she and her intended use Vegas as their “one last night of sex with somebody else” adventure.

Running into her and Chuck (Brit Robert Kazinsky of “True Blood”) repeatedly is too awkward. So the couple decides to make a project of Wally. They’ll fix him up. You know, with an L.A. Laker Girl (Ahna O’Reilly of TV’s “Kingdom”). They’ll golf together, weekend at Catalina.

Chuck, a golf pro, wants to read Wally’s book.

And all this changes Wally’s not, if not Wally.

The thesis here, passed on to Wally by his concerned pals, is that “great writers live interesting lives.” He’s got to get out and live to do that. Even Robby Lebeau managed that, after a fashion.

But you can take the lump out of the library and not the library out of the lump. Wally pouts, broods and cannot manage the socializing. Little moments here and there, but not enough to keep the interest of a Laker Girl.

And that’s true of the movie, too. Wally is too unlikable, and even pity for him feels misplaced.

The awkward moments outnumber the actually amusing ones, and neither is much evident in this script. I didn’t quote any funny lines, because truthfully, there aren’t any that stood out.

Bacall? He’s still better as a bit player, even in a movie built around him.


MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast:  Michael Bacall, Maggie Lawson, Robert Kazinsky, Elden Henson, Mark Webber, Ahna O’Reilly and Michael Cera

Credits: Written and directed by Anthony Abrams and Adam Larson Broder A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:31

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Netflixable? A troubled boy of “Seventeen (Diecisiete)” finds his purpose in a dog in this Spanish dramedy


Héctor, who is “Seventeen,” is the troubled loner everybody in his Spanish reform school picks on. The kids — all reprobates, like him — ridicule the way he took the judge’s edict that he use his two years confined there studying the Spanish criminal code, “to learn the difference between right and wrong,” she says (in Spanish, with English subtitles).

The kids call him “Abogado” (lawyer) and steal his criminal code book from him.

But the fuming, on-the-spectrum Héctor will fix them, we assume. We see him scheming and working in wood shop. He’s machined and carved a stake! When he finishes it, he scrawls a number on it.

He cadges some masking tape and lashes the reformatory-issued slippers he wears to his feet.

First chance he gets, he bolts across the soccer field, scrambles up over the high fencing, just outrunning the guards, and sprints down a path…past other stakes.

When he’s caught, even though he’s very, very fast, he sticks that stake in the ground to mark how far he got on attempt number 20.

“Seventeen” lives on such moments, a little “Cool Hand Luke” there, a hint of every feuding siblings on a quest comedy here, with just enough of Héctor’s (Biel Montoro) ingenuity in all things petty criminal (we’ve seen him steal a motorcycle and break into a mall as it closes in the opening) for his brother Ismael (Nacho Sánchez of Netflix’s “The Ministry of Time” series) to ask him the question we all are by the film’s midway mark.

“Now what, MacGuyver?”

Daniel Sánchez Arévalo — he did “Gordos, (Fat People)” — tells us a story of brothers, a dying grandmother, a missing dog and a cownapped cow in this smart and amusing, if slow-moving, dramedy.

The dog in question is the first sign the audience, and Héctor’s in-school counselor (Itsaso Arana) have that there’s humanity in him. He seems to take no pleasure in his shoplifting, mall-crashing and motor-scooter theft. He wears one expression all the time –sullen. He blames brother Ismael for his incarceration.

An abused therapy-mutt he is assigned lets us see him care about someone or something else. He names the fuzzball “Sheep,” trains him and gives him love, which we were beginning to wonder if he was even capable of.

Then the dog is adopted out. And this time, Héctor’s stake stays in his pocket. He makes his get-away.


He finds his brother living in an RV. “Marta” kicked him out. Ismael knows the kid only has two months left in his sentence. Héctor’s two days shy of his 18th birthday. Any crimes he commits while they look for the people who adopted this dog will get him put in prison, after two days.

Oh, and there’s their abuela (grandma). She (Lola Cordón) is dying, and before they can find the mutt, they must check granny out of the home so they can grant her dying wish — to be buried next to her late husband in the village of their youth.

So we’ve got a kid on the lam, a heart-broken older brother who raised him and wants to give up on him the way Marta gave up on him and a very old woman whose oxygen intake is falling by the hour.

“Dark comedy” is “comedia oscura” in Spanish, fyi.

But “Seventeen” reaches for more than that. It lets us see how this dog is just outside proof of the feelings he’s capable of, an extension of how he’s doted on his grandmother. The hunt of the adopted dog underlines that. He won’t leave a dog they find in a junkyard, refusing to leave the loyal but now sickly animal in the minivan he was in when his master died in a car crash.

I can’t say “Seventeen” sprints by, but its many grace notes make up for the slack pace.


MPAA Rating: TV-MA (criminal behavior, alcohol)

Cast: Biel Montoro, Nacho Sánchez, Itsaso Arana, Chani Martín and Lola Cordón.

Credits: Directed by Daniel Sánchez Arévalo, script by Araceli Sánchez and Daniel Sánchez Arévalo. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:39

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BOX OFFICE: “Malecifent 2” conjures up $36 million, “Zombieland 2” clears $26


Projections had “Maleficent: Mistress of Evil” clearing $42 on its opening weekend.

A Disney original, or at least sequel to an original, it had branding and all sorts of things going for it. Too violent, mediocre cut-and-paste fantasy script, a cast relying on Angelina Jolie, Michelle Pfeiffer and Elle Fanning to put butts in the seats turned out to be an overreach.

It did $36 million, not bad, but as it will be chased out of the top spot momentarily, not great.

Disney has limited its release slate so that proven properties such as remakes of animated classics and “Maleficent” sequels are all it is releasing. This is their weakest opening this year. Not a sign of things to come. Or is it?

“Zomebieland: Double Tap” is ten years removed from the film that spawned it. That distance showed in the cast, the cast’s general weak enthusiasm, and an audience that will wait for it on video, for the most part. It did $26.7 million, per Variety.

“Joker” cleared $30 million for second place, and will be back in first by Tuesday, I figure.

“Hustlers” cleared the $100 million mark.

“Downton Abbey” is a Focus Features-record-setting $88 million and counting. $100 million for that one? Maybe.

“Judy” crawled back into the Top Ten, improving Renee Zellweger’s Oscar nomination chances.

“JoJo Rabbit” and “The Lighthouse” managed $65-70,000 per screen in New York and LA, in limited release.

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Documentary Review: Springsteen imagines himself one of those “Western Stars”


  For his 19th album, “Western Stars,” Hall of Fame rocker Bruce Springsteen turned his working class Americana short-stories-as-songs Southwestern in setting, and made his accompaniment orchestral.
  And since he wasn’t going to tour to support it, he set out to make a “command performance” documentary, playing with a 30 piece orchestra — lots of strings — with a studio band that included accordion, pedal steel and banjo, Country and Western music staples.
  It’s just him — in extreme, handsome close-ups — and assorted Gibson acoustic guitars, wife Patti Scialfa on guitar and backing vocals, four other backup singers and the rest of the orchestra, a large film crew and a few select guests playing in a gorgeous, bowed-roof 19th century barn on his New Jersey estate.
  The songs hit on familiar themes as he takes on the guise of a hitch hiker, a crane operator, a songwriter aspiring to Nashville glory, and not getting anywhere, an itinerant cowboy “Chasin’ Wild Horses,” a faded “Western Star” and a veteran stunt man.
  He sings about waiting for his baby to get there on the “Tuscon Train,” he croons an ode to “Sleepy Joe’s Cafe” and the “Moonlight Motel,” and takes stock of his career “Somewhere North of Nashville.”
  And in between the songs, there’s a lot of somewhat labored narration, a quasi-poetic form of “liner notes” where he explains the dichotomy, the conflict of wanting to be that classic American loner vs. the need for community. He’s telling us how to receive the songs, adding a little biography about his life, his personal failings and struggles.
  He co-directed the film, so he covers those words with endless shots of him driving   the same sandy road in his ’70s El Camino, drinks pouring in either a soundstage recreation of a bar, or the deadest, quietest honky tonk in existence, of him taking off and putting on a cowboy hat, close-ups of his cowboy boots, and of hi –, a lonesome sort, leading a horse through Joshua Tree National Monument. No, he doesn’t ride it.
  Sound kind of boring? It is.
  The concert is studio recording pristine, with nary a flash of the passion, abandon and free-wheeling his epic concerts are famous for. When he sings about “stones in my mouth,” in “Stones,” that’s pretty much what he’s giving us — a straight-faced.stone-faced performance devoid of expression or spontaneity.
  “Lifeless” is the right word for it.
  There isn’t enough audience to warrant stage banter, which is why there’s rarely so much as applause between numbers. These are sessions, live on tape, repeated in performance until they’re damned near perfect. And damned near lifeless.

The faithful are going to want to see it, no matter what, as there is no tour for the album. The songs are perfectly serviceable, painting pictures of a stuntman (“Drive Fast”) with “I got two pins in my ankle and a busted collarbone, A steel rod in my leg, but it walks me home.”

He’s paying tribute to the great Country songwriter Jimmy Webb, he says, the fellow who wrote “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” and “Galveston.” But the “concert” portion of “Western Stars” underlines its essential shortcoming with its encore, a spirited take on Larry Weiss’s “Rhinestone Cowboy,” a huge hit for Glen Campbell.

Whatever “Americana” short stories Springtsteen was reaching for, nothing he serves up here is remotely as memorable or as interesting. A musical quotation from Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin'” here, a Jimmy Webb’s Arizona there.  The generic images of these short stories can’t help but remind one of all the storytelling singer-songwriters who cover the same ground, Willie Nelson among them.

As a film, I am stuck comparing it to Neil Young’s recent, rushed and self-directed recording-process documentary “Mountaintop,” a singer-songwriter not attempting the ambitious re-invention Springsteen is here, but playing and writing with passion and political purpose. Springsteen seems exhausted by comparison, although neither film has all that much to recommend it, cinematically.

  A not-terribly-satisfying recent Asbury Park music history doc gave us more Springsteen biography without his laconic narration.

Then there was Steven Tyler’s vanity project trip to Nashville, “Out on a Limb,” which was, at least, amusing in addition to misguided.

“Western Stars,” earning limited release Oct. 25, isn’t misguided. It’s just dull and self-serious. But if you’re Bruce Springsteen, nobody around you’s going to point that out.


MPAA Rating: PG for some thematic elements, alcohol and smoking images, and brief language

Cast: Bruce Springsteen, Patty Scialfa

Credits: Directed by Bruce Springsteen, Thom Zimny, narration by Bruce Springsteen. A Warner Brothers release.

Running time: 1:24

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Next screening? Springsteen brings Jersey to the Country under “Western Stars”

This Warner Brothers concert documentary earns a limited release this month.

A rocker goes country? Hey, it worked for Kenny Rogers.

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Netflixable? “The Laundromat” takes the cute approach in explaining The Panama Papers scandal


It helps if you’ve seen Alex Winter’s eye-opening/crime-explaining documentary, ” The Panama Papers.” 

And even that isn’t enough, by itself, to dive into the horrors of this scandal.

The corruption runs so deep, the conspiracy is so widespread, that settling in to any understanding of this democracy-crushing, billionaire-enabling global criminal enterprise — with real murderers, drug lords and organ harvesters wrapped up in it — is enough to make one despair about whole nations and an entire planet that’s been “rigged.”

Director Steven Soderbergh doesn’t hand out pitch forks, or lay out long lists of names that’ll be, as the old joke goes, “the first against the wall when the revolution comes.” He delivers a sermon about this overwhelming scandal tucked into a cutesy, all-star/globe-trotting tragi-comedy “hosted” by movie stars — Oscar winner Gary Oldman and Antonio Banderas — playing the two bankers who ran “The Laundromat,” Panamianian shell-company impressarios and money-laundering lawyers Jürgen Mossack and Ramón Fonseca.

It’s Soderbergh’s shot at “The Big Short,” and it falls somewhat short.  It’s convoluted, basically because it has to be. The story is necessarily episodic as the cast of characters is international and hard to pin down and connect. If you’re lost, you’re not alone. The evidence suggests Soderbergh and his screenwriter were, too.

When you’re telling a tale that begins with a widow (Meryl Streep) trying to figure out why the insurance company that covered the tour boat that sank and killed her husband (James Cromwell) wasn’t being forced to pay out, how Russian oligarchs are able to steal a Vegas condo out from under her via her realtor (Sharon Stone), with African looter/robber barons (Nonso Anozie) and murderous Chinese oligarchs (Rosalind Chao) and powerful people of every stripe (the Trump and David Cameron families are implicated, of course) are mixed up in it, finding your way is a lot harder than navigating this long, run-on sentence.

And through it all, the clipped German accent of Mossack and the sultry purr of Fonseca give us the list of “Secrets” that enable this world to exist. “Secret 2: It’s just shells” let’s them pontificate on the tax havens and money-laundering qualities of banks, etc. set up in Cyprus or Panama, Nevis and Nevada, The Seychelles and Delaware.

“Credit is just the future tense of the language of money” sounds sexy and sinister, coming out of Banderas.

The scale of the scumbaggery Soderbergh tries to weave in is daunting to describe, much less to pull off. Jeffrey Wright plays a shell-company middleman, running thousands of them out of a post office box on Nevis in the Leeward Islands. That moral shortcoming spills over into his personal life. You get away with one crime, why not add a second, secret marriage and family?

Matthias Schoenaerts is a bribe-arranger, money-mover and would-be blackmailer who figures there’s an illicit fortune to be made off the slaveholder class in China.

David Schwimmer is a hapless Lake George, New York resort manager (with Robert Patrick as his tour boat captain) dismayed that “trying to save money” through a dubious Texas insurer has mixed them all up — including Streep’s widow, Ellen Martin — with the bogus business empire of The Laundromat, via its Nevis outpost.

And on and on it goes.

The guilty, most of them from the 2000 or so billionaires the world has allowed to gestate, are only looking for “white gloves” to keep their own hands from getting dirty, a shell company within a shell company with a shell corporation of shell companies — to give them deniability.

“You think we know everyone we create a company for?”

The film’s flippant style — all these shots of Oldman and Banderas in tuxes, in white linen suits, walking through caveman “barter” business transactions, drinking Blue Curacao on a beach in Curacao as they’re “explaining” all this — would go down easier if they really were EXPLAINING it.

In other words, take a boy for making the effort, but better luck next time.


MPAA Rating: R for language, some sexual content and disturbing images

Cast: Meryl Streep, Gary Oldman, Jeffrey Wright, Antonio Banderas, James Cromwell, David Schwimmer, Robert Patrick, Will Forte, Chris Parnell and Sharon Stone,

Credits: Directed  by Steven Soderbergh, script by Scott Z. Burns, based on the  Jake Bernstein book. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:35

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Movie Review — A fine rescue edit, “The Current War: Director’s Cut”

current1“The Current War” is a flawed period piece that was caught up in the meltdown of The Weinstein Co. and the grotesqueries of its founder, Harvey Weinstein, who often did to movies what he allegedly did to many women within his reach.

An all-star cast, a splendid story and top drawer production values were doomed to disappear after a disappointing debut at the 2017 Toronto Film Festival.

But Alfonso Gomez-Rejon’s (“Me and Earl and the Dying Girl”) orphaned film has been rescued with a sparkling, at times dazzling re-edit, and its Gilded Age glories can be wholly appreciated in “The Current War: Director’s Cut.” 

Benedict Cumberbatch is the mercurial pop culture icon-as-inventor Thomas Alva Edison, the “Wizard of Menlo Park,” the latest genius on his “Sherlock/Imitation Game” resume. Michael Shannon is the pragmatic but (in this version) principled industrialist George Westinghouse and Nicholas Hoult is the arrogant but brilliant immigrant-dreamer Nikola Tesla in this lively recounting of how the world became electrified.

It’s about the late 19th century struggle to illuminate America. Which current would light up Mr. Edison’s (or Mr. Westinghouse’s imitation) light bulbs, DC — championed by Edison — or AC, the horse Westinghouse backed?

Which company and its genius backer, once this rivalry had been wholly joined, would illuminate the Columbian Exposition, the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair? And whose system would power the electric motors that would soon run the world, the appliances that would make “convenience” available to the masses?

A dazzling opening act of shadows, candlelit glows, sumptuous robber baron interiors and crackling dialogue sets all this up. Edison here is a flamboyant showman, stunning investors with his greatest invention, demonstrated on an open field on a snowy night near Menlo Park, New Jersey.

“I hope you brought your checkbooks.”

He boldly strong-arms mega-banker J.P. Morgan (Matthew McFadyen) after first warning his children about the infamous capitalist’s appearance. That…nose.

“It’s like someone took a hammer and smashed it into his face!”

Westinghouse is the one who sees things in terms of cost, practicality. The man whose fortune was made on the steam brakes that made rail travel safe claims to be guided by “legacy — leave the world a better place than you found it.”

He sees the ruinous infrastructure costs of Edisons Direct Current (DC) as limiting it to only cities, to only the wealthy. Alternating Current, he presses his engineer, Frank Pope (Stanley Townsend) will allow electricity to be transmitted over vast distances, slashing the number of power stations and cutting “copper” costs.

The man knew his nickels and dimes. Pope? He wasn’t so sure.

“I really don’t think it can be done,” Pope grouses.


“Because ‘He’ would have already done it.”

“Current War” perfectly captures Edison’s public persona. His credit hogging and showmanship made him infallible in the public eye, and he expected that to scare off those who would copy him, rip off his ideas, steal the credit for his bulbs, motors, phonograph and later kinetograph (motion pictures).

His secretary (Tom Holland) is closest to him, and still dazzled. Tesla came from Europe to work for him, and is somewhat more sanguine and just as brilliant and opinionated. He knows AC is the way to go, and as Edison dogmatically doubles-down on the DC bet and refuses to even consider the Serb’s big ideas, Tesla walks out.

However close the film hews to the facts (close enough, although we called them “robber barons” for a reason), the period details here are spot-on, from the rail coaches to the first electric tram, oil-lit lamps to the white-light bulbs that replace them.

Edison, a former telegraph operator, swaps Morse Code insults and jokes with his sons, nicknamed “Dot” and “Dash,” tapping them out with spoons on bowls, etc.

Tuppence Middleton  and Katherine Waterston bring spark to the roles of the ever-supportive wives, Mary Edison and Marguerite Westinghouse. In them, we sense how the feud that errupted between their husbands began with a personal affront. The Edisons were to have a formal introductory dinner, with a little shop talk, at the Westinghouse mansion. Edison brusquely stood them up. 

The “War” esculated, with capital punishment becoming a furious bone of contention as Edison, whose vow was to “never make anything that hurts people,” pushes the idea that Westinghouse’s AC system “is lethal,” and only perfectly-used when it powers the world’s first electric chair.



Humor and swagger, ego and pathos are tied up in “The Current War.” It’s a tight picture, never more than in that sprint of an opening act (the first 35 minutes). But the pictorial grace notes are glorious — Niagara Falls frames the story.

Yes, it feels old-fashioned, playing up the virtues of the contestants. Civil War veteran Westinghouse never wants to lay off workers, turns cutthroat only AFTER Edison, and the film skips over how he was able to mimic but not copy Edison’s patents. Edison? Righteous to the point of self-righteous.

The movie gives Tesla just enough of the story to remind us why he is remembered along with the fellows who brought General Electric and Westinghouse into homes the world over.

One bit of casting doesn’t quite work. McFadyen is rarely cast as oligarchs and villains for a reason. Think of what John Goodman or someone with genuine menace could have brought to Morgan, an ogre with Harvey Weinstein’s looks and greed that knew no bounds. Cumberbatch’s Edison walks all over McFadyen’s Morgan. That didn’t happen.

It may not be the Oscar bait it was once pitched as. But “The Current War” is still a fine picture, sharper in focus, quick to identify all the many players in this epochal struggle, all improvements made since it left the hands of The Weinstein Co.

With this “Director’s Cut,” Gomez-Rejon and his editors have saved a witty, well-acted and gorgeous-looking movie and given it the heart, history and intellectual heft it needed to come off.


MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some disturbing/violent images, and thematic elements

Cast: Benedict Cumberbatch, Michael Shannon, Tom Holland, Tuppence Middleton, Nicholas Hoult, Katherine Waterston, Matthew McFadyen, Stanley Townsend

Credits: Directed by Alfonso Gomez-Rejon, script by Michael Mitnik. A 101 Studio release.

Running time: 1:42

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Next Screening? “The Current War: Director’s Cut”

So The Weinstein Co. rounded up an all-star cast for “The Current War,” a piece of history about the DC vs. AC battles of Edison (Benedict Cumberbatch) and the Tesla-Westinghouse (Nicholas Hoult, Michael Shannon) of the late 19th century.

Bragging rights and future billions were at stake in this struggle by titans over how America and the world would electrify.

Matthew McFadyen is J,P. Morgan, Tom Holland is an Edison acolyte, Tuppence Middleton and Katherine Waterston are the female leads.

And yet Alfonso Gomez-Rejon’s film was a bust at film festivals (Toronto, 2017 among them). And Harvey Weinstein, well, you know what happened there.

Weinstein scrapped this Oscar bait picture’s release. Two distributors later, 101 now has it. And Gomez-Rejon have recut it.

“The Current War: Director’s Cut” opens Friday.

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WEEKEND BOX OFFICE: “Maleficent” underperforms, “Zombieland” overperforms,”Hustlers” crosses $100 million


Disney’s “Maleficent: Mistress of Evil” genocidal war movie masquerading as a kids’ fairytale had been predicted to clear $42 million on its opening weekend. That ain’t happening. A $35.5 million first weekend will be enough for it to claim a win, but it won’t sit at the top long.

Another sequel — “Terminator: Dark Fate” — is coming. Soon.

And “Joker” is still making $30 million a weekend. Or it will this weekend.

A big Thursday night and solid Friday gave “Zombieland: Double Tap” a boost towards a $26-27 million opening weekend. Not bad for a middling movie that’s a sequel ten years removed from its original October Surprise.

Pre-weekend projections suggested the aged, no longer up and coming cast and long dormant title meant a $20-23 million opening was the upper end of what Sony could expect from the zombie killing comedy. I still say it’ll do all its business opening weekend. Not strong enough for word of mouth to keep it around.

“The Addams Family” is losing audience to the “Maleficent” steamroller, and won’t clear $14 million on its second week.

“Gemini Man” has fallen off a table.

“Hustlers” has been the break-out of the fall for STX, a $100 million (and counting) strippers rob Wall Street winner.

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