A few weeks or months from now some seasoned journalist will write an absorbing, almost certainly colorful history of the Aaron Sorkin-scripted Steve Jobs project, which has not had a smooth ride so far. The latest development, reported by Deadline‘s Mike Fleming, is that Sony Pictures has decided against distributing — why? — and that Universal has all but snapped it up. This following the abrupt abandonment of the Jobs role by Christian Bale, and before that David Fincher leaving the project over a pay dispute. Based on the Walter Isaacson biography of the Apple founder, the film will be directed by Danny Boyle with Michael Fassbender reportedly a possible candidate to fill Bale’s slot. (He doesn’t seem like the right guy to me — wrong physical look — Bale would have been perfect.) The film is being produced by Scott Rudin, Christian Colson, Mark Gordon and Guymon Casady.

Earlier today Variety‘s Brent Lang suggested that Laura Poitras‘ Citizenfour, easily the year’s best feature-length documentary, deserves a Best Picture nomination. Lang is apparently concerned that the Academy’s documentary branch might be too contrarian or mule-headed to nominate it or that the general Academy membership, which prefers to vote for docs that make them feel emotionally nourished, might regard Citizenfour as too controversial or something. This despite the International Documentary Association (IDA), a pretty good indicator of Academy sentiments about documentaries, having last month nominated Citizenfour for Best Feature Doc.

I’ve always loved this old SCTV skit about longtime Bob Hope worshipper Woody Allen attempting to collaborate with his idol. Until today I never knew that the phrase “aging Pentagon clown,” a Hope description that I first heard back in the early ’70s, came from a Russian journalist. Ten or twelve years ago Albert Brooks delivered an entertaining speech to some industry gathering of some kind (I seem to recall it occuring in Santa Monica) and I somehow got hold of an audio tape of Brooks’ remarks, and I transcribed a portion of them. And one of the stand-out portions, for me, was when he talked about watching Bob Hope on TV as a kid in the 1950s, and how his father would get really excited when an upcoming Hope appearance loomed, but when Hope did his act “you never laughed,” Brooks recalled. I posted a transcript of Brooks remarks about Hope and the absence of seatbelts in 1950s cars, and a couple of days later Howard Stern read from the Hope stuff on his show. (This was at least a couple of years before he started with SiriusXM.) Note to Brooks if he’s reading this: Any chance you have a recording of this speech lying around, and could I persuade you to share it?

In Dan Fogelman‘s Danny Collins (3.20.15), Al Pacino plays a successful but creatively frustrated songwriter who apparently decides to churn out deeper, more personal songs after learning that John Lennon wrote him a fan letter in 1971. That’s 43 years ago. Pacino’s titular character couldn’t get his more soulful mojo going on his own? Got to strike your own match. On top of which Pacino/Collins thinking he might have developed his artistic potential if only he’d read Lennon’s letter in ’71…? Forget it. And not getting around to this until his 70s? Pacino/Collins is also hoping to rekindle his relationship with a son (Bobby Cannavale) and perhaps bask in a little forgiveness for being a selfish shit, but of course that doesn’t come easy. I think we’ve seen this story a few dozen times. The only “formerly selfish old guy looking for forgiveness and redemption from his kids” movie I’ve ever half-liked was Wes Anderson‘s The Royal Tennenbaums. Oh, and I can’t roll with the name Danny. I have this very stubborn, deep-rooted resistance to it, as I explained five and a half years ago.

I was roaming around a Macy’s on Tuesday night. The combination of the treacly, mildly sickening Christmas carols playing on the sound system (my feelings about “Jingle Bells” are best not expressed) plus coming upon a row of gold-toe socks in various designs and colors…wow. Just a passing moment but I fell into a dark place, especially as I thought about the general holiday thing. I like the jingle vibe as much as the next guy, but I always feel relieved on January 2nd. I began to feel this distance when I was in my 20s. It went away when the kids came along, especially during their toddler years, but then it came back. And that’s fine.

The happiest Christmas moment of my adult life was at a party at Robert Towne‘s home in mid-November of 1997. Towne had hired three professional singers to roam around his large Pacific Palisades abode and sing Christmas carols in perfect harmony, all dressed in Dickensian garb such as top hats, shawls, bonnets, gloves and hoop skirts. Towne’s home smelled of cinnamon, turkey, cigar smoke, turkey gravy, stuffing, egg nog….glorious. Curtis Hanson was there; ditto Jerry Bruckheimer. Everyone was buzzing about Hanson’s L.A. Confidential and what seemed like a good chance of it winning the Best Picture Oscar. And then some guy told Hanson he’d just seen Titanic. “It really works,” the guy said, and I think on some level (and I felt badly about this) Hanson knew. An inkling of what was to come. The dashing of his dream. And if he didn’t sense it, I sure did.

Due respect for the enthusiasm and elation that followed an 11.17 New York screening of Ava DuVernay‘s Selma, but a potential Best Picture Oscar winner has to be about more than the ideals and convictions and historical events that may be recreated on a screen, and it certainly has to be about more than the pride and delight that an audience feels upon recognizing the transformative goodness and nobility of these events. The movie itself has to sing. It has to make its own magic. It has to be its own magic. The acclaim for any film has to be about that film. The cultural significance or the emotional baggage or the grand triumph of the events portrayed, however stirringly, are not enough. If Selma ends up winning, fine. I’ll understand; everyone will. But other qualities in other films should be weighed and given their just due. To be fair, I mean.