Formula One race-car driver James Hunt, who is portrayed by Chris Hemsworth in Ron Howard‘s Rush, died at age 45. The film doesn’t exactly say that Hunt paid the price for being a chronic party animal, womanizer and cigarette smoker who burned the candle at both ends, but that’s obviously what happened. He died of Harry Nilsson‘s disease — “He liked to party and he got that, and in the end it got him.” It’s funny how this pathology, which has been dramatized over and over by party-hound types in Hollywood and the music industry for decades…it’s fascinating how this never seems to have the slightest effect upon people in their 20s who love the wild life. Almost everyone in their 20s thinks they’re bulletproof. Or that they’ll start living more moderately down the road. Or that it’s better to burn out than to fade away.

(l.) Chris Hemsworth; (r.) James Hunt.

I might be kidding myself, but I believe there’s a difference between (a) mindless smartphone distraction as a way of avoiding mystical silences and pushing back on loneliness and (b) constantly searching sites and refreshing Twitter and checking emails in an 18/7 search for material, which is more or less what I do.

Last April I caught an American Cinematheque screening of the original cut of Thom Andersen‘s L.A. Plays Itself (’03). I was happy to see it again, of course, but the visual quality was basically shit and it was of course dated by a decade. It reminded me that it was time for Andersen to deliver an updated, remastered version. That new version screened last night at the same venue. Here’s a Arts Meme mini-review by Robert Koehler. A make-up screening at the Aero would be nice. Or at least a chance to watch a DVD screener.

“I was totally bowled over by 12 Years a Slave and it looks to me like the rare case where a sentimental or politically-motivated vote will go toward a film that, you know, actually deserves it,” says Peter Knegt in a 9.20 Indiewire piece called “Has 12 Years a Slave Already Won the Oscar?” “It’s hard to deny the narrative this year of decent (Lee Daniels’ The Butler) to good (Fruitvale Station) to downright brilliant (12 Years a Slave) films with important black stories being directed by actual black filmmakers. Which I say only because so many times over the years, films with major black characters have been huge Oscar contenders (Driving Miss Daisy and Crash being the obvious two), but they were representationally problematic ones directed by white dudes. If this is the year of the black filmmaker, Steve McQueen is a remarkable one — who is wholly deserving of what’s about to come his way.”

I recognize that Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners has won the devotion of the elites. I recognize that the damp, sprawling Fincher-like aspects of the damn thing are very appealing to a certain breed of critic. But for me and others in my aesthetic realm it feels more like a dense slog than anything else, and I think it might be nice at this juncture to gather all the complaints (like the 153-minute length and that “what?” ending) under one umbrella and kick the can around. All I know is that I began looking at my watch around the one-hour mark. All through Prisoners I felt weary and chilly and fatigued. “If this is such a good film — and it is — why do I feel like a prisoner myself?,” I muttered at one point.

Time‘s Richard Corliss acknowledges that while Prisoners “has more pedigree than a Westminster dog-show winner, it’s just not very good. In fact, it’s worse than not-very-good — it’s could’ve-been-really-good-and-isn’t.”