Scott Feinberg‘s 1.15 Hollywood Reporter piece about recent anti-Walt Disney Facebook postings by Abigail Disney (grandniece of Walt, grandaughter of Roy Disney) is moot as far as the Oscar fortunes of Saving Mr. Banks are concerned. The case has been made over and over that Banks is a corporate whitewash that pampers Disney’s reputation and cheers his decision to ignore the complaints of the joyless, brillo-haired scold P.L. Travers (Emma Thompson) in the creation of Mary Poppins (’64). The views of Academy members who’ve paid attention to these complaints and those who are committed to ignoring them in perpetuity are set in stone. Banks will probably be Best Picture-nominated and Thompson is a lock for Best Actress, but that’ll be the end of it.

The Razzies were a moderately amusing concept in the ’80s and ’90s, but the world has moved on. One reason they’re barely paid attention to is that worst of the year lists are ubiquitous online during December and early January, and whatever limited interest might exist in this post-relevant annual event (which attracted moderate attention when good sport Sandra Bullock accepted her Worst Actress award in person in 2010) has all but dissipated by the time of the presentation, which is always right before the Oscars per the scheduling of founder John J.B. Wilson. But the main reason the Razzies are roadkill is that they only go after easy prey. Where is the pizazz in announcing that Grown Ups 2, a piece of Adam Sandler sequel sausage that no one cared about to begin with, has acquired eight Razzies noms? The other worst picture nominations were won by The Lone Ranger, A Madea Christmas, After Earth and Movie 43.

Jimmy Fallon‘s Bruce Springsteen is really first-rate; arguably as good The Boss himself. This reminded me of the Joe Cocker-John Belushi SNL duet from…when was that, ’76 or thereabouts?

I trust I’ve made myself clear over the past several years. I love writing this column 24/7 but “the season” — the six-month period between Telluride/Toronto/Venice and the Oscars — is where the real fun and thrills lie. And yet the idea of this same period consuming huge amounts of time and energy and incalculable brain-wave activity in order to predict which films and filmmakers that members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will choose to give Oscars…what is that? I need to put this carefully. Covering the Oscar race pays pretty well, and for that I’m grateful. And I respect the fact that it’s a very, very difficult thing for a film to find sufficient acclaim to even get into the award-season conversation, much less become a finalist. There is real value in this, and each year serious payoffs are at stake. I don’t belittle this effort or the Oscar economy for a second.

But I do belittle the taste of those Academy members (i.e., not all) who have proven year after year that they have very little belief in serious Movie Catholicism, and that they basically regard the Oscars as a kind of high-school popularity contest. Yes, it’s always been this way but I think it might be getting worse. The King’s Speech and especially The Artist winning Best Picture took something out of me, and then the likable, perfectly efficient Argo after that…c’mon! And now the idea of an indisputable masterpiece like 12 Years A Slave possibly losing the Best Picture Oscar to a technically astounding, eye-popping thrill ride like Gravity plus the idea of Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio having to do interview after interview to try and persuade the Hope Holiday contingent that The Wolf of Wall Street isn’t a celebration of vile behavior…I swear to God the doors of perception are narrowing.

Too many Academy members seem to favor films that provide an older person’s idea of emotional comfort (tearful sentiment, delivering some echo from their youth, resuscitating some facsimile of something well remembered) more than anything fresh or unusual or even semi-challenging. Not always but a lot of the time. This is partly if not largely due to the “deadwood” contingent — too many Academy members haven’t worked in the industry for too long, and their tastes are just too conservative and mildewed and doddering. Every year they bring everyone down.

“I was so taken with my first viewing of Hany Abu-Assad‘s Omar, a Palestinian-produced thriller about betrayal and double-agenting in the West Bank, that I caught it again last night at the Palm Springs Film Festival,” I wrote on 1.5.14. “It’s a taut, urgent, highly realistic thriller that squeezes its characters and viewers like a vise. Omar is among the Academy’s short-listed Best Foreign Language Feature contenders, and with my personal favorites, Asghar Farhadi‘s The Past and Yuval Adler‘s Bethlehem (which is quite similar to Abu-Assad’s film) out of the running, I guess I’m an Omar guy at this stage.” I’m presuming that the Academy will nominate it Thursday morning as one of five Best Foreign Language Features.

Of course Jennifer Lawrence is tied to the Hunger Games franchise like a slave! A very rich slave but a slave nonetheless. I laughed when I read American Hustle‘s David O. Russell had made this analogy. She took the money of her own free will, of course, and in so doing agreed to submit to the needs of the franchise until it finishes. To me this is a somewhat amusing, perfectly acceptable way to describe what Lawrence is going through; ditto with the X-Men franchise. But leave it to the politically correct brownshirt morons to complain and make a stink about Russell’s remark, for which he has now “apologized.”

Russell’s statement of contrition: “Clearly, I used a stupid analogy in a poor attempt at humor. I realized it the minute I said it and I am truly sorry.”

If I were Russell I would also agree to be whipped, bareback, in a public place as soon as possible.

I would also add the following to Russell’s apology: “The word ‘slavery’ can never be and should never be used in a non-literal fashion. It can only be used if the speaker is referring to actual slavery as it existed in the United States in the 19th century and in other cultures around the world, going back to the ancient Egyptians enslaving the Hebrews. It can never, EVER be used as a metaphor or a figure of speech. I was very arrogant and insensitive to use this term. The word has has one use and one use only.”

Five weeks ago I did a short little riff on six Sundance ’14 standouts. But the more I sift through the programs, the less excited I am. I’m not down on anything — just even-toned. The usual 25 or so films will be seen and the usual five or six (at most) will emerge as genuine standouts. The first order of business is always to decide which films look dicey, and in that effort my heartfelt thanks to the team at Total Film — experience has taught me that almost everything these guys are excited about and hoping to like, I’m probably going to find irksome or dislikable or worse. Here, in any event, are a few pre-festival spitballs — instinct, off the top, “what do I know?”

Damien Chazelle‘s Whiplash appears to have heat, granted, but Miles Teller irritates me for what I freely admit are unfair and unwarranted reasons. (That “driving and not looking” scene in The Spectacular Now is one of them.) Steve James‘ Life Itself, the Roger Ebert doc, will be poignant and moving and very well crafted, I’m sure, but I wonder how nakedly honest — the more reverent the portrayal, the less interesting the subject becomes. Gareth Evans‘ The Raid 2: Bernandal is an instant must-to-avoid because (a) I hated The Raid (thanks once again to James Rocchi for recommending it two or three Torontos ago) and (b) I am, as always, fiercely committed to avoiding all Asian-based or Asian-produced action films for the rest of my life. The deadly obnoxious conceit of Michael Fassbender wearing a ceramic mask over his head throughout the entire length of Frank (according to plot descriptions) is obviously a potential catastrophe. The One I Love with Mark Duplass and Elizabeth Moss has to be at least decent. And the generic description of William H. Macy‘s Rudderless — “a musical drama about the power of a parent’s love” — has me scared shitless.

Four good things came out of Sunday night’s Golden Globes Awards. 12 Years A Slave winning for Best Motion Picture, Drama inserted a helpful nudge factor in the deliberations of Academy voters who might otherwise be looking to blow it off because, as several award-season pulsetakers have noted, they feel it’s a morally urgent, award-worthy effort but too much of a grueling sit. Leonardo DiCaprio‘s win for Best Actor, Comedy/Musical was a significant score for The Wolf of Wall Street and an indication that he may land a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar nomination. (This plus an expected Best Picture nom plus one for Best Adapted Screenplay and, if there’s a God of Fairness, a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Jonah Hill.) Ditto the Best Actress, Comedy/Musical win by American Hustle‘s Amy Adams…probably. And the Movie Godz completely agreed with Her‘s Spike Jonze winning for Best Screenplay.

The surprised but elated Slave gang after Sunday night’s win.

During last night’s Golden Globes monologue, Amy Poehler said the following: “After 12 years A Slave, I will never look at slavery the same way again.” At first I was confused, and then I deciphered her meaning. What she was saying (I think) is that Steve McQueen‘s movie is redundant — that we all know that slavery is and was evil, and so who needs to sit through an artful, brutally frank recreation of what Solomon Northup went through 160 years ago? That’s what I was thinking before I saw it at Telluride. Who needs it? And then it began and I was reminded what knockout movie art can sometimes feel like. Watching 12 Years A Slave awoke me to a reality that I’ve been aware of all my life, but which I hadn’t really felt. I never let it in. And now I have. But Amy Poehler didn’t. Okay, she might have but the joke definitely sucked.

My first reaction when I read this tweet last night was “thank God we have men of backbone like Ronan Farrow to speak truth to power when the rest of the world is averting its gaze.” Seriously — what a terrible thing that Woody Allen hasn’t been sufficiently villified and condemned for behavior that might have happened…what, 21 or 22 years ago? Lament not — the son of Frank Sinatra is on the case and he doesn’t back down. There’s more than a little touch of Hoboken in Farrow. He might be right, but he also might be a bit of an asshole. Never trust the artist — trust the tale. I trust the morality and the humanity of the movies Allen has made over the last 40-plus years.

Five days ago /FilmCast interviewer David Chen posted an audio interview with City Arts critic Armond White about the New York Film Critics heckling incident that ultimately resulted in White’s ouster today from that organization. Here’s the mp3. It lasts two minutes and 58 seconds. Make your own judgment.

Curtis Reeves, a 71-year-old former Tampa police officer, shot and killed a man this afternoon inside a Tampa movie theatre, reportedly over a texting argument. It happened during a showing of Lone Survivor at the Cobb Cine Bistro in a Tampa suburb called Wesley Chapel. The victim has been identified as Chad Oulson, a husband and father who reportedly had explained to Reeves that he was texting his three-year-old daughter. Oulson’s wife Nicole was also shot but only in the hand — i.e., not fatally.

A local news report includes the following (and this is the key thing): “A witness recalled seeing [Reeves] get up and leave in an apparent attempt to find a manager. When he came back alone, the argument escalated.” In other words, if a theatre manager had calmly but firmly intervened and insisted that Oulson stop texting (or that he needed to text from the lobby), it’s entirely possible that Reeves would have felt placated and wouldn’t have shot Oulson.

I blame Reeves, of course — this was obviously the act of an unstable personality. But the errant manager of the Cobb Cine Bistro, I feel, bears a portion of the responsibility.

Management never gets involved in these matters. Talkers, texters, bellowing apes…managers are always unavailable. They always chicken out, hiding in their offices, “busy,” etc. Movie theatres have become chaotic, emotionally dangerous environments to some extent. Handguns, cell phones, hair-trigger rage…it’s Dodge City out there. I know — last month I dealt with an asshole who wouldn’t shut up during a screening of The Wolf of Wall Street, and all I did was stare at the guy and he was thisclose to starting something with me.

This was a problem from the get-go because it was a generational dispute — Reeves is retired (probably in his late 60s or early 70s) and Oulson, the father of a three-year-old, was presumably fairly young — a member of the texting generation who probably had a comme ci comme ca attitude. And then along came Dirty Harry — a conservative man who undoubtedly felt that that Oulson was being unconscionably selfish and violating his rights as a moviegoer, and who couldn’t hold it together. And who was packing.