With the Asheville Film Society fundraiser showing of the 1933 King Kong coming up on Wed., July 20 (7:30 p.m. at The Carolina), I’ve found myself spending a lot of time recently with that simian gent. Yeah, there have been three versions of King Kong—and that’s not counting offshoots, knock-offs, rip-offs, and sequels of a highly dubious nature—but really has anything ever come close of the 1933 original? Certainly, the 1976 remake is negligible at best and blasphemous at worst. Peter Jackson’s more respectable and respectful 2005 version has its merits, but does it linger in the mind the way the 1933 film does? Is it in itself in any way iconic?

It’s July 3. Of course, I’m going to write about Ken Russell—it’s his birthday. (It’s his 84th birthday, if you’re keeping track.) Anyone who’s been paying attention knows that three things will happen today. I’ll write something about Ken. I’ll call him up to offer birthday greetings. I’ll watch a Ken Russell movie—or two. It follows as the night follows the day. And as is often the case, I’ve grown reflective—that we may attribute to my own aging.

Last week was Father’s Day and because of my daughter, I ended up spending a good bit of the past week watching Bing Crosby movies. In other words, she sent me the most recent Bing Crosby Collection. It’s actually a very apt choice, since I mostly owe my lifelong love of Der Bingle to my father, who not only introduced me to Crosby, but slightly resembled him and sang very much in the same style. (At the same time, he wrong-headedly preferred—oh, my, no—Frank Sinatra.)

Well, last week’s onslaught of penguins, beavers, and green-tights wasn’t a very pretty sight. (Maybe penguins and beavers in green tights would have been better. Green Lantern with an all-penguin cast kind of appeals to me.) If it hadn’t been for Cave of Forgotten Dreams and the fact that Midnight in Paris was still around, I might go so far as to call it grim. Do Bad Teacher and Cars 2 indicate much of an improvement? Perhaps not, but there’s also The Tree of Life and L’amour Fou to take into account. That should help.

Well, here we are at the tail end (you should excuse the term) of the sixth month of 2011. That means that the year is half over. That also means that the movie year is half over. And I have to say that it ain’t a very inspiring sight. Usually by this point, I can come up with eight or nine candidates for a Ten Best list. This year, I can come up with three—and maybe a couple more if I fudge things. What’s going on out there?

Warner Bros. is working overtime to convince us that Green Lantern fills some long-felt want this week. Meanwhile, while the folks at Fox insist that nothing spells entertainment like Jim Carrey on ice with penguins. In more specialized realms on the locally level, Werner Herzog explores Cave of Forgotten Dreams and Jodie Foster brings Mel Gibson and The Beaver to town. Make of all this what you will, but make of it here—now with added trailer action!

So here’s the rest of the alphabet of movies that may or may not be worth another look. Having now seen Thir13en Ghosts twice, this is beginning to look like a risky and unnecessary undertaking, but I’m determined to perservere—at least as far as the titles I have on hand. It’s not that Thir13en Ghosts is any worse than I thought, but it didn’t warrant another look. Opt for its predecessor, the 1999 House on Haunted Hill, instead. Just about everything worth seeing—and a whole lot more—comes from the earlier film. I am sincerely hoping that this does not turn out to be a harbinger of things to come. But let’s look at letters “M” through “Z.”

Welcome to the new-and-improved (well, in a work-in-progress sense) “Weekly Reeler” and a week of some considerable note in terms of the art and indie scene—with no less than three worthy non-mainstream entries. Hobo with a Shotgun opens at The Carolina, while Incendies opens at the Fine Arts, and Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris opens at both! What more can you ask? Well, asked for or not, there’s also Super 8 and something called Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer.

The other week, I had occasion to sift through just about everything I’ve written for the Xpress since 2000. This wasn’t something I undertook lightly since there are over 3000 reviews and what not to sift through, but to provide a friend with some information, there really was no other way. In the process, I kept bumping into titles that I’ve long had it in mind to revisit—some (many) to the degree that I bought the DVDs. I have, however, not actually rewatched a single one of these.

In the sense of high-profile movies, this is a slack week. All we’re getting is Matthew Vaughn’s X-Men: First Class. That’s perhaps wise, since the box office is already slammed with big money-makers, and going up against anything as anticipated as this X-Men prequel/reboot is a death wish. However, we do have a couple of art titles to consider—Meek’s Cutoff at The Carolina and the documentary Bill Cunningham New York at the Fine Arts.

Before it’s possible to entertain the question of movie snobbery—and are you or aren’t you?—it’s necessary to arrive at some kind definition of what constitutes a movie snob. One way and another, almost all of us are some kind of movie snob. I think I once heard of someone who wasn’t, but he ended up as curator of the Martin and Lewis archives and was never heard from again (apart from strangled cries in the night of “Hey, Dino!”). We won’t mention him again. There is, after all, a very fine line between “discerning viewer”—generally defined as being capable of recognizing that anything from Michael Bay should be avoided—and the outright “movie snob”—an altogether more slippery proposition.

Last week was pretty much given over to Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. This week is more diverse with two new art titles—13 Assassins (Carolina) and The Double Hour (Fine Arts)—and two mainstream ones—The Hangover Part II (everywhere but Carmike) and Kung Fu Panda (everywhere but Beaucatcher). It’s an interesting array at the very least.

Anyone with even a casual interest in the history of the movies has almost certainly encountered the widely accepted “fact” that 1939 was the best year for movies ever. (TCM’s Robert Osborne never tires of reminding us of this.) The claim seems to be based on 1939 producing Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz with everything else of even moderate value packed in afterwards to support what is to me an insupportable point. Or like the song says, “It ain’t necessarily so.” Of course, that statement means I have to attempt to support my assertion that 1939 is not the best year for movies. It’s a fool’s errand, but I’ll have a bash.