It is a crime in this day and age not to occasionally check in on Jeffrey Wells’ Hollywood Elsewhere, with topics ranging from billboard photos, blind item brunches and oddly angry political rants against apathetic teenagers.

Wells is a classic mix of online reactionary and keen insight, peppered with various “what the fuck” moments and the occasional non sequitur involving Paris Hilton and Al-Qaeda. To ring in the New Year, let’s take a quick look back at our favorite blogged remarks from the man who confused Mike D’Angelo with Ed Gonzalez, and whose random photos of restaurants and lawns oddly resemble–for lack of a better term–art. Also, any use of bold is for emphasis and my own editorial comments are in italics.

Happy New Year, Elephants
On New Year’s Eve, it sounds like Jeff was staying at a raucous party house in one of the Boroughs (Manhattan, Brooklyn? Who can tell these days.) Conditions were so bad that he was sadly driven to bar-hopping due to his neighbors:

I live below a family of animals — Hispanic party elephants — who stomp around and play music so loud that the building throbs and the plaster cracks. It’s a fairly safe bet they’re going to lose their minds tonight so I may as well just huddle down in the city and bounce around from bar to bar.

Follow-up in the comments from Wells:

People with a little class and breeding and a college degree don’t tend to be as noisy or boisterous or loutish as the commoners, cretins, galumphs, bad dressers, etc. The lower end of the gene pool. T’was ever thus.

Wells on Sundance: Dagnabbit Kids Be Knockin’ Boots!
One of the subjects dearest and most familiar to Wells is Sundance. His dispatches? Legendary. His mocking of “road to Sundance” articles? Acidic. But the real fun starts when he complains about never getting laid at this supposedly hedonistic festival:

For journalists, Sundance is pretty much synonymous with tight accomodations[sic] and shared bathrooms. O give me a bunk and a shower and a table and a chair and some good wifi, and it’s all cool. Not only do serious festivalgoers make do without outdoor hot tubs or crackling fireplaces or nouveau riche Deer Valley chateaus with 22-foot-high ceilings or those bullshit Utah buckaroo king-size bed frames. It’s kind of against the mindset (the religion, if you will) to stay in a lavish place. Pricey McMansion digs are for the dilletantes[sic] and lookie-lous and — the absolute dregs of Sundance Film Festival visitors — skiiers[sic].

I’m a loyal fan of Carol Rixey’s Star Hotel [Remember this name], easily the warmest and homiest place in town. And it has great wifi, and an excellent living room with soft easy chairs and fat sofas, and a dining room with nice long table to have a nice warm breakfast in. (Comes with the room.)

…

I can tell you something — it’s the volunteers and the assistants sleeping in those Cider House beds who get all the nookie. In the mid ’90s I asked an assortment of festival veterans if they’d ever gotten lucky during Sundance, and all but one said “nope.” The exception was Usual Suspects and Valkyrie screenwriter Chris McQuarrie, who said yes, good things have personally happened to him in Park City but “only with an import.”

Wells on Sundance, pt 2: Fear and Loathing in Park City
It’s a post that could have simply consisted of, “I have arrived at Sundance. Huh. Time to go to bed. Actually, I don’t need to post this.” In Wells’ hands, it’s a literary masterwork:

Nobody’s here. That I recognize. Empty streets, idle merchants, half-filled restaurants…the last quiet that Park City will know for 10 or 11 days. It all cranks up starting tomorrow. I shared a $34 dollar airport shuttle into town with Hollywood Reporter guy Gregg Goldstein — that’s the single most noteworthy thing that’s happened over the last eight or nine hours. It’s now about 3 or 4 degrees outside. Ice crystals in my nostrils. A big storm is coming on Sunday, the shuttle driver said.

Challenge:Link Shitty CGI-Monster Movie to a Katrina documentary
Ask yourself: how would you link Cloverfield to Trouble the Water? One’s an over-hyped J.J. Abrams joint, the other an award-winning documentary about surviving Hurricane Katrina. But if you’re Wells, comparing the two is easier than snapping a cell phone shot of your dinner:

I’ve almost never felt queasy from jiggly, hand-held photography (I eat films like Dancer in the Dark for breakfast), although I’ll admit that Cloverfield has more than its share. Yesterday, however, I saw the King Kong of hand-held nausea jiggle movies — Tia Lessin and Carl Deal’s Trouble The Water, a doc about the Katrina disaster.

Half of it was shot by Lessin and Deal in the usual fashion and is no big challenge, but the other half is shakycam footage of Katrina’s devastation shot by one of the film’s main subjects, Kimberly Rivers. (The other is her husband Scott.) The footage is so scattered and whip-panny that I was starting to think about bolting less than ten minutes in. Show Trouble The Water to those Cloverfield sufferers in Pheonix[sic] and they’d spew in their seat.

In Which Glenn Kenny Becomes a Platform for Obama
Originally a blind item from Glenn Kenny, Wells added his own spin to it: mainly, the names of all parties involved—including the NY PR guy. (Spoiler: Alex Rivera got harassed by a racist swag shop chick accompanying two actors from his film, Sleep Dealer.)

Note: Kenny doesn’t identify the players by name in his piece. I was given the lowdown last night after a showing of Patti Smith: Dream of Life.

Followup: In a world of my own devising an organized demonstration would be held outside the photo shoot/swag sometime late this afternoon. The chant could be something along the lines of “Hey hey, ho ho, swag racists have to go!” An all-media advisory would be sent out this morning. The usual pitchforks and torches would be handed out of the back of a pickup truck on Swede Alley 30 minutes prior to the start of the demonstration. Flyers with a photo of swag girl who uttered the racist remark would be wild-posted all over town alongside a slogan that reads, “Who are we? Does Barack Obama have reason to be concerned?”

YAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
Rambo came out earlier this year. It was supposed to be…well, we’re still not sure what. But Wells was excited about it. How excited? Howard Dean Death Yell excited.

Every time a head got sliced or blown off, I laughed or let go with a big “yawww!” So did the mostly-male audience which applauded at the end. Everyone had a great time. I felt relaxed with these guys…bonded.
…
This is the second best Rambo film after First Blood, and although it’s obviously not meant to be “funny,” it is at times, wildly so. I laughed out loud on a good five or six occasions. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez are going to love this thing. You could even make a case for Rambo being an instant porno-violent classic in the vein of Ron Ormond’s The Monster and the Stripper, Alejandro Jodorowsky’s Santa Sangre, Herschel Gordon Lewis’s Blood Feast…that line of country.

Kicker for a Jack Matthews Tribute or Obscure Reference to Self-Masturbation: You Decide.

Ok, this was the kicker to a post honoring Jack Matthews, formerly of the New York Post. But take it out of context, and it may cause you to question what the hell is being honored here.

I will never stop banging it out. One is either busy being born or busy dying. I know where I stand. Die at your desk.

Honest Injun Gayness
Remember that “Full Retard” line from Tropic Thunder? Well, this is like that, but praising an actor for being “Full Gay” and “Full Dick.” Honest Injun.

I felt a genuine gayness from Sean Penn, who plays the title role of the late San Francisco supervisor Harvey Milk, that I didn’t think he had in him.
…
And Frank Langella’s performance as Richard Nixon is naturally and necessarily more toned down than it was on-stage, and that, Honest Injun, makes it a fascinating, moving (as in genuinely sad), award-level effort.

No. Fucking. Idea.
This is supposed to be a either joke or an insidery snark attack against film catch-phrases. To be quite honest, I’m still convinced this is a secret code to…something.

Do I look like I’m negotiating, friendo? I’m already pregnant so what kind of milkshake-slurping could I get into? Except for ruining the love life of my older sister and her lower-class boyfriend by bearing false witness? I am Sheba, the reincarnation of Shirley Booth!

[No, really. That's the entire post.]

No Fatties, But…
Apparently one of Wells’ great fears is to sit near fat people in a confined space. He shares this with us, followed by the strangest blog update I’ve ever seen. And trust me, I’ve read Hollywood Elsewhere.

Before every flight, I cross myself and ask God Almighty not to seat me next to a morbidly obese person. There are at least two whales in line right now, and I’m feeling a very slight apprehension about this. There are thousands of people in Paris who look well-fed or stocky or fat, but I’ve seen no Jabbas. You might expect otherwise in a foodie city like Paris, but nope.

Update: No fatties but Doug Liman is on my plane.

Live-Blogging is like Swimming After Eating, We Guess
Eric Kohn live-blogged Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulll for IndieWire. Many were not amused by this. Mainly because they’re twits–something about “herp derp critic integrity!” Mainly because Eric scooped them and wasn’t doing anything that off from the rest of the Cannes crowd. Devin Faraci–a frequent HE commenter, natch–took offense with this. And of course, Jeff agreed. Sort of.

I agree totally — it’s doggerel. Lame. Kohn and Indiewire were simply looking to be first to provide the very first commentary on the film anywhere in the world — except it wasn’t commentary but rudimentary (i.e., quite crude) descriptions of scenes as they happened. There’s an internet audience for this kind of stenography, of course, but to what end? A movie deserves a little thought before before commented on. I tapped out an instant hand-held judgment after Indy 4 ended, but at least I’d thought it through for an hour or two.

Remember that Hotel in Park City?
Fun fact: if you leave a piece of clothing somewhere, that’s as good as a down payment, credit card or loan. From now on, I’ll be paying my bar tabs with socks.

[Jeffrey Wells] to Star Hotel proprietor: “I found a place in Park City but I can’t move in until Friday the 16th. Would you let me crash on the living-room couch for the first two nights (1.14 and 1.15)? Which I’ll pay you for, of course. It would be greatly appreciated if you could grant me this small favor, as you left me in the lurch this year. I thought I’d made it clear as a bell that I intended to return, having stayed in your wonderful abode the last two years and leaving my cowboy hat there and telling you I’d wear it when I returned in ‘09 and so on. Anyway, can ya do me this one?”

When pressed to explain, Wells continues in the Comments:

Yes, yes…if I’d left a cash deposit or a credit-card number then the room would have been assured. I’m not an idiot. But leaving the cowboy hat and plainly stating to the proprietor that I’d come back and wear it the following year (especially after having stayed at the Star in ‘07 and ‘08 and been part of the family there, in a sense) was a very emotionally vivid and pronounced way of stating my intentions. It was a message that is recognized by everyone all over the world. It’s even recognized in the animal kingdom (i.e., leaving your scent on a piece of turf).

If you go out with a girl and she comes home with you and stays the night and she leaves her underwear or bra or socks in your bedroom after she leaves the next morning, we all know that’s a universal message that says, “I want to come back and get to know you better and probably have sex with you again.” Everyone knows that. Leaving an article of clothing, something with your scent and paw-prints and sweat residue on it, means that you intend to come back and spray your scent around some more.

If you were to see a 1930s Gary Cooper western and hotel manager Frances Farmer, giving him the old twinkle-eye, asked him if he was coming back after taking his cattle to market, and if he faintly grinned at her and took off his cowboy hat and left it hanging on the wall as he walks out the door, everybody watching the film in any country in the world would know exactly what that means. It would be crystal clear. So don’t tell me. Credit cards are well and good, but to say left-behind cowboy hats and such mean nothing is to be way too “dollars and cents” about this matter.

Sadly, it looks like the hotel gave his cowboy hat to the police–Jeff then posts the phone call as an audio file.

So Jeffrey, we wish you a happy new year and can’t wait to see what sort of insanity you give out this year. If you’ve got your own favorite Wells-ian moments, leave them in the comments.