Some heresy regarding the film PICNIC.

Joshua Logan’s adaptation of the William Inge play PICNIC will screen in early April at Hollywood’s Egyptian Theater (Netflix/American Cinematheque) with two people I like doing a Q and A afterwards.

But I can’t bring myself to see it again; once, two decades ago, at the pre-Tarantino Vista Theater was more than enough.

Overaged, miscast William Holden and the excruciating scene where Rosalind Russell loudly begs MARRY ME MARRY ME MARRY ME to Arthur O’Connell resonate in my memories like tornado warning sirens.

Mitigating factors are Kim Novak and young Susan Strasberg, plus the Kansas color cinematography of James Wong Howe.

But it doesn’t work for me as a definitive portrait of breaking away from small town narrowness.

Time for women in Hollywood to age naturally without plastic surgery.

As most of the world is now aware, Renee Zellweger had the kind of "work" (aka facial surgery) done which erased much of the face she exhibited during her years of Movie Stardom in the 1990s and 2000s.

And, of course, it's difficult to make a nuanced complaint about it in a quick-to-polarize, fueled-by-social-media world.

The last time a major actress appeared as a victim of bad plastic surgery was Kim Novak at the 2014 Academy Awards.  She was greeted with a lot of sexist mockery countered with "it's her choice" pushback.

I watch the still-running ABC daytime soap opera GENERAL HOSPITAL and wince (but not from sexism) when I see Jackie Zeman and Donna Mills appear.

They've had the kind of plastic surgery/facial injections that either immobilize the facial muscles (which appears to have happened to Donna Mills) or puff up the cheeks so much that they're immobile when the actress smiles or exhibits emotions (Jackie Zeman).

True, there are women of a certain age in the business who opt for relatively minimal Botox treatments--some who look a bit blurry as a result (Kelly Ripa) and others who still resemble their younger selves (Rene Russo).

Like it or not, people get older and age visibly on their own.

And it's time for women (and men)--and studio/network executives--to accustom themselves to this without ludicrous or hideous attempts to halt time and force a mask-wearing vision of unwrinkled "youth" onto consumers of "product" and "content."

My modest proposal: plastic surgery should be avoided unless it's intended to undo the results of automobile accidents and/or face-slashing by mentally disturbed criminals.

THE ARTIST really doesn't live up to its hype.

Before filmmaker Michel Hazanavicius crafted THE ARTIST, he made a couple of comedies inspired by the French O.S.S. spy series of the 60s.  These films (one of which I saw) are essentially AUSTIN POWERS-meets-BORAT satires of racism/colonialism/sexism; they got some art-theater showings and are available on video.

THE ARTIST is a straight-up attempt at remaking the kind of silent film with intertitles plus a musical track that Charlie Chaplin did twice in the 1930s (CITY LIGHTS and MODERN TIMES).  It's technically brilliant (looking spot-on like a shot-in-the-20s actual silent) and will undoubtedly make an American star of Berenice Bejo (who will probably be inundated with offers to play wild-and-crazy girlfriends of Jason Segel and/or Paul Rudd).  And it has Harvey Weinstein pulling out the promotional stops to make it a left-field Oscar winner in the tradition of LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL.

Unfortunately, the film is overlong, overthin, a bit too one-dimensional--and, as with the somewhat superior HUGO, unlikely to find a supportive mass audience in an era where silent cinema is as much a thing of the past as books, print newspapers, VCRs, DVD players and reviews by people who were once paid a lot of money just to write film criticism.

LET'S PLAY VERTIGO