“The next time you want to talk some trash about what a provincial city Houston is, or how we all deserve to get blown away by a hurricane, consider this. And then consider this: In 2000, Al Gore got more votes than George W. Bush in Houston. And in 2004, John Kerry got more votes than George W. Bush here. So there.” — Variety critic and author Joe Leydon, sent to yours truly this morning.

Wells to Leydon: I never called Houstonians provincial. I certainly wouldn’t in the wake of their having elected the openly gay Annise Parker their new mayor. I simply said that Hurricane Ike’s hitting Houston in September 2008 was a case of oil karma — i.e., a city living by the sword and suffering by the sword, that’s all. It’s Biblical.

As I wrote on 9.12.08, there are some situations in which you can’t be truthful because the viewers (or readers) simply won’t have it. Drawing a corollary between the oil industry, global warming and the Hurricane Ike devastation in the Galveston area was a no-brainer. Any climatologist would note the same thing if he/she were among friends and felt free to be honest. Anyone with a minimal understanding of the factors causing global warming would have quietly nodded if Al Gore had drawn this analogy, let’s say, on a radio talk show.

In a gathering today at Manhattan’s Walter Reade theatre, the NYFCO (New York Film Critics Online) voted on the following awards: Best Picture — Avatar (20th Century Fox….LITTLE BIT OF A GEEKY CHOICE BUT WE’RE TALKING ONLINE HERE…FINE); Best Actor — Jeff Bridges (Crazy Heart); Best Actress — Meryl Streep (Julie & Julia…WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?); Best Director — Kathryn Bigelow (The Hurt Locker…GOOD MOVE).

Plus Best Supporting Actor — Christoph Waltz (Inglourious Basterds…ZELIGS!); Best Supporting Actress— Mo’Nique (Precious…GOATS PRODDED BY SHEPHERD’S STAFF…baaaah); Best Screenplay — Inglourious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino; Best Documentary — The Cove (Roadside Attractions); Best Foreign Language –The White Ribbon (Sony Classics); Best Animated feature — Up (Disney/Pixar).

I chatted last night with legendary director Whit Stillman, who’s been living in Manhattan and writing screenplays for the last several months after an extended expat period in Barcelona and Paris. The occasion was a screening at the 92YTribeca of Metropolitan (1990), which will have a 20th anniversary showing at next month’s Sundance Film Festival. Sometime during the first weekend, I was told, with a social gathering to follow. Calling all Stillman heads!

Stillman and Metropolitan star Chris Eigeman did a q&a after the screening, and then everyone hit the bar and drank beer.

My favorite Stillman film is Barcelona by far, but Metropolitan (which came out on a Criterion DVD in ’06) is still dryly amusing and faintly bizarre in its weird and chuckly anthropological way. It’s a carefully ordered tale of some Bush-era rich kids that has some of the sharpest (and at times almost surreal) young-person dialogue ever written.

In a certain sense Metropolitan is arguably a more interesting film now than it was in 1989/90. Because it shows more than ever that Stillman is Wes Anderson‘s uncle. (Or older brother, older cousin or whatever.) Because they both make/have made films about brilliant, curiously charismatic people who breathe rarified air and live on their own clouds. Stillman is a little more in the UHBs (urban haute bourgeoisie) than Anderson, but it’s a similar line of country.

Stillman and Anderson are also somewhat similar in the sense that they shoot with an exacting visual aesthetic. (Anderson a little more so). Plus they both dress nicely and have both lived in Paris (Stillman previously, Anderson currently) and probably share several other similarities. And yet they’ve never met, Stillman told me last night. Weird. (Hey, Wes? If you’re reading this get in touch and I’ll hook you guys up.)

Metropolitan/Barcelona/Last Days of Disco director Whit Stillman, Metropolitan star Chris Eigeman — Saturday, 12.12, 9:25 pm.

If you ask me Stillman laid the foundation, built the house and then moved to Europe, and then Anderson moved in and remodelled and made it his own. Anderson obviously has his own thematic signature that has manifested in many different ways, but I can’t help but think of Stillman’s three films (including The Last Days of Disco) when I think of Anderson’s. The linkage is unquestionable.

Anyway, it would be great to see Stillman get out of Director’s Jail and get back on the horse and start composing more films about witty rich oddballs who needs to find their souls. I would kill to see a Whit Stillman film about the Goldman Sachs culture — it’s a subject that has his name on it. Maybe if Anderson really and truly doesn’t feel that he wants to direct The Rosenthaler Suite (which I think he should), producer Brian Grazer could discuss it with Stillman, who’s one of the few directors who understands the ironic quirk character of uptown Manhattan realms.

The Los Angeles Film Critics Association has given its Best Picture award to The Hurt Locker with Up In The Air coming in second. Hurt Locker‘s Kathryn Bigelow won for Best Director with The White Ribbon‘s Michael Haneke right behind.

Jeff Bridges won LAFCA’s Best Actor award for Crazy Heart, edging out A Single Man‘s Colin Firth. And Yolande Moreau won Best Actress for her performance in Seraphine, nudging out An Education‘s Carey Mulligan.

The first phase included The White Ribbon dp Christian Berger winning for Best Cinematography. LAFCA rolled over for Mo’Nique‘s Precious performance in the Best Supporting Actress category. (And why not? Why should any other actress even be considered?) And Inglourious Basterds‘ Christoph Waltz, the other winner of the Best Supporting Actor Zelig vote.

Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner‘s Up in the Air won for Best Screenplay, beating out Jesse Armstrong, Simon Blackwell, Armando Iannucci and Tony Roche‘s screenplay for In The Loop. Crazy Heart composers T-Bone Burnett and Stephen Burton beat out Fantastic Mr. Fox composer Alexandre Desplat for Best Musical Score. District 9‘s Philip Ivey beat Rick Carter and Robert Stromberg‘s work on Avatar for Best Production Design.

The Best Documentary prize was split between The Cove and The Beaches of Agnes.

The Boston Film Critics dropped the ball with their Best Actress award by handing it to Meryl Streep instead of Carey Mulligan, but otherwise today’s Beantown voting was a four-star triumph for The Hurt Locker. Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Iraq-war thriller was named Best Picture, Bigelow won for Best Director, Jeremy Renner was named Best Actor for his Sgt. James portrayal, and Barry Ackroyd won for Best Cinematography.

What’s it going to take to get critics to stop reflexively handing Mo’Nique their Best Supporting Actress awards for her Precious performance? Will some of them please get a grip and show a little ornery backbone and say no this performance, please? (God!) Going with Inglourious Basterds Christoph Waltz for Best Supporting Actor is…aahh, let it go, whatever. Joel and Ethan Coen won the Best Screenplay award for A Serious Man. And hail to The Cove, winner of the Boston Film Critics award for Best Documentary.

An Up In The Air spoiler was posted by an HE talk-backer a while ago. I got rid of it, but not before considering what the guy was saying, which is that an audience he saw it with was a bit deflated by the downish finale and not applauding at the end, etc. Well, I don’t think audiences applauded at the end of The Godfather, Part II either.

George Clooney’s last shot in Up In The Air; Perkins’ in Psycho.

Up In The Air is a close-to-the-bone thing to anyone who’s struggling in the job market, or who lives in an overly-protected emotional space. I know it isn’t intended to end on a note of celebration or exuberance. It’s not a movie for snack lovers. It’s on the Eloi-repellent side.

That doesn’t mean that the above-described audience didn’t feel they’d seen something emotionally or spiritually complete. The fact that Up In The Air ends on a note of wistful melancholy — director Jason Reitman doesn’t dwell on George Clooney‘s expression at the very end, but it’s almost as arresting in its own way as the skull on Anthony Perkins‘ face in the final seconds of Psycho — is what makes the film so unusual. The film is selling a kind of comfort food, yes, but an oblique kind that can’t help finding satisfaction in the sending of mixed messages. It’s not selling the kind of comfort that many people go to movies for, I know that. This is why I respect it.