Hollywood Elsewhere’s Tyrannosaur screening fund-raising campaign was kind of exciting while it lasted and I’m glad I did it, but you know what? Not that many people showed up. I was able to pay for three extra screenings on top of what Strand had booked so the people who needed to see this film would have a few more options, and at the end of the day the silence was almost deafening.

The Aidikoff screening on 10.27 lured about nine or ten journalists, the 10.31 showing at the Ocean Ave. Screening Room attracted three or four, and the third & final screening at the Sunset Screening Room on 11.2 played to five or six people. Several top-drawer Los Angeles journalists that I expected to see attend didn’t attend. So either they saw it at Sundance 2011 or LAFF 2011 last June, or they plan to see it at the 10 am screening at the Royal on 11.8, or they’ve figured some other way to catch it. It just feels like not that many people give a shit. I figured the “Olivia Colman as a deserving Best Actress or Best Supporting Actress” factor would attract a few more rsvps. But no.

If people have something better to do, you can’t stop ’em.

Some kind of police-protestor standout recently captured in Oakland. Real deal, real bodies, real choreography….”owwww! arrgghhh! Fucker shot me!”

Some kind of Dark Knight Rises brawl recently shot on Wall Street. Real deal, real bodies, real choreography.

There are light or semi-frolicsome heist films like Topkapi, The Hot Rock, Sneakers or the Oceans films, and there are dead-serious ones like Rififi, The Asphalt Jungle, The Killing and Odds Against Tomorrow. Obviously Tower Heist belongs in the former category. Its closet cousin, I feel, is Peter Yates‘ The Hot Rock. Smart chat, amusing antics, likable perps, etc,

Okay, it’s good natured and even funny now and then, and yes, Eddie Murphy has definitely given his funniest comic performance since Bowflnger. I actually started liking him again after I don’t know how many years of throwing mental spitballs at the guy.

But I was a little bothered that director Brett Ratner didn’t seem very invested in the fantasy of actually doing the job, much less getting away with it. Too few details, no suspense to speak of…no way to believe that Ben Stiller and the guys had any kind of serious shot at success. An audience needs to believe a little bit in the reality of the job, and my sense was that Ratner didn’t give a shit. The whole thing felt larky.

As silly and japey as The Hot Rock was, I had a better time with it, and I was at least half-invested in the realistic terms of the various heists. Yes, even the helicopter attack on the Manhattan police station. Even Afghanistan Bananistan. I didn’t believe the Tower Heist guys were all that committed.

Two weekends ago (or was it three?) I made the mistake of renting four Blurays at Vidiots. I watched them within a couple of days, took them down to the car, threw them into the back seat and forgot about them. This morning a Vidiots clerk called and said I owe them $160. That seemed excessive. I told the clerk that my first reaction would be not to return the Blurays, but to build a fire outside and burn them. More emotionally satisfying, etc. He said fine, but if I keep them or burn them they’ll charge me $160 plus the cost of the Blurays. This is why I don’t rent, and why I’ll never go back to that store again.

Steven Soderbergh‘s Haywire (Relativity, 1/20./12) will be shown tonight at the AFiFest under a “secret screening” heading at 9 pm. A brief q & a with Soderbergh and star Gina Carano and maybe a couple of others will follow.

The costars, as everyone knows by now, are Channing Tatum, Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Michael Angarano, Antonio Banderas and Michael Douglas.

Haywire (originally called Knockout) was shot mostly in Ireland from early February 2010 to 3.25.10 at a cost of $25 million, give or take.

A full fight clip of Carano and Michael Fassbender was reportedly shown at Comic Con last July. “All the stunts in this movie are meant to be more realistic than your normal Hollywood action film. No wire work. No stunt double for Gina except for 2% of the film. No cutting away or shaky cam during the fights. Channing, Ewan, and Michael did most of their stunts also.”

Martin Scorsese‘s Hugo (Paramount. 11.23) screened this afternoon for press at the big Regal plex in downtown LA. It’s a fanciful, heavily CG-ed, 3D storybook film that plays like a “family entertainment” flick during the first two thirds to 75%, which is to say with much familiarity. But the final act, roughly the last 25 minutes, is another story.

For Hugo concludes with a great excursion into filmmaking history and the first dreammakers (particularly George Meiles, director of the 1902 A Trip To The Moon and dozens of other shorts) and film preservation and all that good movie-Catholic stuff.

This finale, aimed squarely at film dweebs and sure to sail right over the heads of most tykes and tweeners, is by far the best portion of the film, and easily worth the price of admission in itself.

Lamentably, the story of poor little Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield), an orphan living a hidden secret life in the guts of a Paris train station (apparently le Gare Montparnasse) in the late 1920s, occupies the bulk of the running time, and too much of this section feels rote and boilerplate. Or it did to me, at least.

I have an AFIFest event to go to in a few minutes, but here are slightly expanded versions of this afternoon’s tweets from the Regal.

Tweet #1: Too much of Hugo is done the cute way, the twee storybook way, the endearing childhood emotion way. To me the first 60% to 65% felt needlessly prolonged. Hugo runs 127 minutes, but it could and should have run 75 or 80 minutes. Okay, 90 minutes but no longer.

Tweet #2: The extended running time is due to a needlessly drawn-out relationship between an annoyingly secretive and quite inarticulate Hugo Cabret and the annoyingly secretive and inexplicably nihilistic Melies (Ben Kingsley). Melies is furious that his career has fizzled and therefore discourages any mention of his past glories — an absolutely nonsensical attitude if you know anything about what all filmmakers, failed or successful, are like.

Moderator Paul Thomas Anderson (far left) and the Hugo team (l. to r.) — director Martin Scorsese, dp Robert Richardson, composer Howard Shore, production designer Dante Ferretti, edtitor Thelma Schoonmaker, and visual effects supervisor Robert Legato.

Tweet #3: The other running-time extender is the tediously predatory pursuit of Hugo by Sasha Baron Cohen as a half doofusy, half-villainous train station cop.

Tweet #4: But once the film focuses on the legendary history of Melies and once the dawn of moviemaking in Paris in the early 1900s is recalled and recreated, Hugo is pure spirit-lifting pleasure. Finally the “cute big-eyed kid trying to survive in a Paris train station” story is more or less abandoned and the film lifts off the ground.

Tweet #5: What formerly successful filmmaker wants to hide his illustrious past? What wife of a formerly celebrated filmmaker (a woman who was the star of most of his films) wants her husband’s past success kept under wraps? After pride in craft and the respect of peers, all filmmakers live for recognition and adulation. I can’t imagine any filmmaker trying to suppress awareness of his/her past achievements, or being okay with being forgotten.

Tweet #6: I think I could have done without Sacha Baron Cohen and that Doberman altogether. And 20 or 25 fewer closeups of Butterfield’s big watery eyes and his looks of fear and hurt and bewilderment.

The post-screening discussion, moderated by Paul Thomas Anderson (The Master, There Will Be Blood), featured Scorsese, dp Robert Richardson, production designer Dante Ferretti, longtime Scorsese editor Thelma Schoonmaker, visual effects supervisor Robert Legato and composer Howard Shore.

Here’s an assessment by Hitflix/In Contention’s Kris Tapley.

“Hey Jeff, thought you might be interested in these pics of Ryan Gosling, recently announced as the costar of an upcoming Terrence Malick film called Lawless, doing precisely what Christian Bale was doing with Malick in Austin last month. Only this time, it was a different music festival.” — from a friend this morning.

I’ve got three or four more stories I could write but it’s 11:30 am and I have stuff to do before driving downtown for a 2 pm screening of a film I’m not supposed to mention, which will be followed by a q & with a not-to-be-mentioned director. So that’s it. To be continued, etc.

Clint Eastwood is a signature filmmaker, an auteurist. His movies have a tone, a vibe and a stamp that say “take it or leave it, but this is a Clint film.” They’ve all delivered a feeling of wholeness and completion, certainly by Eastwood standards. The problem for some (many?) of us is that post-Million Dollar Baby and with the exception of Gran Torino his films have begun to feel a little too meditative, longish, labored and languid. And what’s with the frequently desaturated color?

Letters From Iwo Jima was eloquent and affecting, but Flags of Our Fathers was a slog, The Changeling became the basis for a drinking game, and Invictus and Hereafter were shortfallers. And now comes J. Edgar, which I saw last night.

It’s an Eastwood film, all right. And it’s not bad for what it is. No, better than not bad. “Decent” is a fair term to use. It’s Clint’s version of Brokeback Mountain, in a sense, and is finely performed and professionally assembled, etc. Dustin Lance Black‘s script certainly covers the bases, and J. Edgar is actually a fairly radical film for a guy of Eastwood’s age and history and conservative philosophy. If J. Edgar Hoover is still floating or swirling around on some ectoplasmic level and he has a chance to see Eastwood’s film when it opens, he’s going to be one pissed-off ghost.

But for all the things it does right and despite that feeling of rock-bottom assurance that an Eastwood film always provides, J. Edgar is a moderately boring film, at times in an almost punishing way.

Mostly because it’s a profound drag to spend time with such a sad, clenched and closeted tight-ass. Hoover, the founder and ruler of the FBI for 37 years, was such a guarded and snarly little shit, and truly reprehensible in his attitude toward and relations with Martin Luther King, and a coward to boot. And when you mesh this guy with that languid highly relaxed Eastwood pacing and that desaturated color scheme (again!) the film begins to feel like it’s slowly draining the life out of you. It desaturates your soul.

(l. to r.) Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer and Clint Eastwood at Thursday night’s AFIFest premiere of J. Edgar.

And after a half-hour or so I began to say to myself, “This isn’t a bad film…better than I thought it would be…Clint knows what he’s doing…and it’s true about Leonardo DiCaprio‘s performance being highly focused and exacting and possibly award-worthy (maybe), but…let’s see, 136 minutes long, another 100 to go…I have to be honest and admit that I’m not looking forward to sitting through the rest of this. Although I don’t want to miss Armie Hammer‘s big emotional blowout scene (i.e, seeing red after Leo mentions the possibility of his marrying Dorothy Lamour and then wrestling with him on the floor and kissing him) or the moment when a distraught Leo puts on his mother’s dress and pearls after she dies.”

J. Edgar is an earnestly conceived and well-made film, and one that delivers the goods by the end (i.e., making the case that Hoover’s life was all about acquiring and keeping power, and that this power was used for dubious motives in many instances, and that the man himself was a tragic if not a pathetic figure). But it’s a bit of an endurance test, and the under-40s, I suspect, are going to stay away in droves.

The old-age makeup looks like old-age makeup, but for whatever reason I got used to Leo’s old-Hoover appearance, and it wasn’t that much of a problem. But I couldn’t figure what his Hoover accent was about. I only know that I kept saying to myself, “He sounds like an actor using a strange accent.” And Hammer’s old-Tolson seems a bit too leathery and liver-spotted, like some ghostly figure out of a Roger Corman film. Judi Dench‘s performance as Ma Hoover and Naomi Watts‘ as Helen Gandy, the FBI director’s longtime secretary, are steady and true.

I want to see Larry Cohen‘s The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover again.

Here’s a brutal, flame-throwing takedown of Eastwood’s film by Boxoffice critic James Rocchi.

Andy Rooney, the scintillating, bluntly honest 60 Minutes commentator with the moderately cranky manner, has died “of complications following a minor surgery.” He led a rich and storied and distinguished life, and 92 years is a long run by anyone’s standard. Most people depart a few years earlier on average so Rooney was doing something right, or he had good genes or whatever.

But it’s interesting, I think, that he died only 33 days after his final 60 Minutes commentary was broadcast.

For some people (like myself) work is the engine and the sustenance of life, and when that stops the body senses this absence — no more wood being thrown onto the fire — and it starts looking around for an excuse, any excuse, to shut down. Stanley Kubrick dying only a short while after finishing Eyes Wide Shut was another example of this syndrome. This is one of the reasons why the word “retirement” was banished from my vocabulary years ago.

My favorite Rooney commentary (which he was slammed for) was about the 1994 suicide of Kurt Cobain. “A lot of people would like to have the years left that he threw away,” Rooney said. “What’s all this nonsense about how terrible life is?” he asked, adding rhetorically to a young woman who had wept at the suicide, “I’d love to relieve the pain you’re going through by switching my age for yours.”