Dave “weather vane” Karger, the Fandango smoothie whose Oscar predictions always seem to reflect the Academy’s lowest-common-denominator sentiments, isn’t going with The Butler‘s Oprah Winfrey as the most likely Best Supporting Actress winner. He’s instead picking 12 Years A Slave‘s Lupita N’yongo to take the prize. For a guy who always defaults to the soft center and almost never stands alone, this is a significant bellwether. Karger, in fact, is predicting a 12 Years a Slave sweep — Best Picture, Best Director (Steve McQueen), Best Actor (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and Best Adapted Screenplay (John Ridley). He’s going with Blue Jasmine‘s Cate Blanchett for Best Actress, of course. Karger also has All Is Lost‘s Robert Redford listed as his second-most-favored Best Actor contender.

“My own wish, for whatever it’s worth, is that Louis B. Mayer, the Brothers Warner, Harry Cohn, Adolph Zukor and the others had puffed their chests and said the following in the thirties: ‘To hell with Gyssling and his threats. To hell with the anti-Semitic bastards in the country who want to see us drown. To hell with the Anti-Defamation League, which is telling us we can’t do anti-Nazi pictures or pictures with Jews in them because it would call attention to ourselves. We built a magnificent entertainment business, and we’re going to make the pictures we want to make.” But they didn’t say that. They negotiated, they evaded, they censored their creative people, they hid, they schemed to preserve their business in the future. They behaved cravenly. But they did not collaborate.” — David Denby in a 9.23 New Yorker piece that harshly criticizes Ben Urwand‘s “The Collaboration: Hollywood’s Pact With Hitler.”

Roman Polanski‘s Venus in Fur was the final competition film I saw at last May’s Cannes Film Festival. Spoken in French, it’s a one-set, two-character piece (set inside a smallish theatre in Paris during an evening rainstorm) that began as an English-language play by David Ives. It was re-written by Ives and Polanski for the screen. It seems to mirror on some level the relationship between Polanski and his wife Emmanuelle Seigner, who costars along with Mathieu Almaric, who portrays the Polanski stand-in, a stage director, and who vaguely resembles the younger Polanski of the ’80s. Other than that it’s…well, I don’t want to abruptly dismiss any work by a great filmmaker but it really does feel like a minor work in a minor and restrictive key. Seigner delivers a snappy, saucy, highly-charged performance — I’ll give her that.

“And somewhere, sometime, you should try to catch Pawel Pawlikowski‘s Ida, the Polish film that was in Telluride and Toronto,” a colleague writes. “Black-and-white, 1.37 Academy ratio — looks like a Dreyer film shot in 1962 Poland. Alexander Payne was the first to rave about it in Telluride. Directed by the guy who made My Summer of Love with a ripe Emily Blunt a decade or so back.” Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu told me to see Ida in Telluride and what did I do? I missed it. Hollywood Reporter critic Todd McCarthy raved about it in Toronto. Peter Debruge‘s Telluride review in Variety called it “a joyless art film.”

Rather than hang around Manhattan and attend and cover the New York Film Festival I decided last weekend to pack it in and return to Los Angeles. My flight leaves late this afternoon and arrives this evening. I’ve seen Captain Phillips, of course, and I gather I’ll be able to see Ben Stiller‘s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in Los Angeles concurrent with its NYFF showing. I’m presuming that a day-and-date LA screening of Spike Jonze‘s Her will also kick into place.

If I was really loaded I would try and save LexG from himself. I say this knowing that no one can be saved. You can lead a person who’s in trouble to water but you can’t make them drink. (Most of the time they’ll refuse to drink out of dumb pride.) But I would still try because I believe in his writing. I would pay him a decent salary to bang out some kind of daily HE sub-column, but it would be contingent on his firm commitment to a rehab program and to an austere diet — both of which I would fund. I would throw in a modest but tasteful new wardrobe (no K-Mart lace-ups or cross-training shoes), a year-long membership in a health club and a hair-restoration procedure that would require a visit to Prague. But no hookers. And if he fails to adhere to the program I pull the plug and he’s back to the life he has now. What are the odds that he’d tow the line?

Despite feeling a profound distaste for organized religions (or even the concept of faith) since I was 11 or 12 years old, I’ve never been able to call myself an atheist. It just feels lazy to simply say “there is no God…no governing, all-encompassing force throughout creation.” Of course there is. The discovery of the Higgs Boson provides the scientific proof. As I wrote last June, “I despise what Christianity has become in this country, but in a certain sense I believe in intelligent design — in the idea of a unified flow and an absolute cosmic commonality in all living things and all aspects of the architecture. The difference is that I don’t attach a Bible-belt morality to this. To me God is impartial, celestial, biological, mathematical, amoral, unemotional, miraculous and breathtaking.”

At least part of the fervor behind the applause that greeted Paul McCartney‘s visit to Jimmy Kimmel Live was his appearance. Slim, dark-haired, agile, quick-witted — this is what a 71 year-old in good physical shape looks and sounds like in 2013. As opposed to, say, your typical 71 year-old, madras-shirt-wearing tourist from Phoenix. Not so much about “denying the biological reality” but a vigorous pushback. At the same time I haven’t the slightest interest in listening to McCartney’s New…sorry. The last McCartney act that got me out of my chair was the Nirvana performance. Here’s a clip from last night’s Hollywood Boulevard set.

This being a relatively fallow period, I’m in the mood right now for Ridley Scott‘s The Counselor (20th Century Fox, 10.25). I’d like to see it this weekend, I mean. Or tonight at a screening. Cameron Diaz‘s style and makeup consultant did a pretty good job at conveying her character’s trashy inclinations or low-rent origins — leopard-spot tats, gold tooth, black-and-blonde hair, a little too much mascara. But I’m stuck on the last line. Diaz says “what a world,” Penelope Cruz says “you think the world is strange?” and Diaz says….what? “I meant yours”? “I’m a source”? “I meant Soros”…a subtle reference to to Democratic donor George Soros? I’ve listened to it five times on earphones and I can’t make it out.

Yesterday In Contention‘s Kris Tapley wrote that “a release-date bump” for Martin Scorsese‘s Wolf of Wall Street (Paramount, 11.15) “is looking very likely.” Paramount execs saw the first cut last weekend “but almost no one has seen it yet as [Scorsese] has been hard at work whittling down a typically massive first cut (with elements that would easily yield an NC-17 rating, by the way). But does it go to 2014 or to December?”

2014? Who’s saying that? A eunuch? If Paramount distribution execs are actually pondering a bump into next year (and I’m not presuming anything at this stage), they need to grim up and conduct themselves like persons of character and conviction. Having read and really enjoyed Terence Winter‘s Wolf script, I know what this film more or less is — Goodfellas/Casino meets Wall Street. Or, if you will, the conclusion of Scorsese’s Rise and Fall Of A Flamboyant American Criminal trilogy. Any talk about concerns over a possible NC-17 rating is totally candy-ass, in my view. From what little I know of editing an R rating is certainly achievable.