Before last night I hadn’t listened to “Dreaming” in…I don’t want to think about it. Now it won’t leave me alone. Track #3, side #1 of the original British pressing of Fresh Cream. Cream bassist Jack Bruce, author and singer of “Dreaming”, died last October at age 71. I don’t like the way those early Cream songs were mixed with the instruments turned down and the vocals turned way up. In fact it irritates me.

Steve Jobs screenwriter Aaron Sorkin has rehashed his “unethical American journalists exploited the Sony hack for their puny contemptible gains” riff in a 9.29 Hollywood Reporter piece by Alex Ritman, which stems from quotes Sorkin gave during a London round-table discussion.

“The worst part [of the Sony hack] was seeing the American press as a willing accomplice, an eager accomplice to terrorism,” Sorkin said, repeating a view that hit the press on or about 12.17.14. “I don’t know how these reporters who printed the stuff can look at themselves in the morning.” He stated that the Sony hack was a “low point” for the American press, which he claimed had “absolutely aided and abetted terrorism.”

Sorkin believes that journos should have ignored the hacked material, adding that “you cannot tell me that an argument about Angelina Jolie is newsworthy or what Cameron Crowe’s troubles are in post-production on Aloha is newsworthy or any of the Steve Jobs stuff was newsworthy.”

You’ll notice that Ellen Degeneres was impassive — no nods or smiles or little twinkly expressions of encouragement — as Matt Damon sought to put out his latest Twitter brushfire yesterday. Damon explained that he definitely wasn’t suggesting a return to closeted lifestyles blah blah, but Ellen clearly thought he deserved to suffer for saying the wrong thing and offending the LGBTs. Note: I’m very sorry for using this E! News clip, which unfortunately opens with Carissa Loethen and that oppressively chirpy, 100% clueless sexy-baby-virus vibe that she exudes. If I never listen to another blonde airhead entertainment news show anchor it’ll be too soon.

You know what I love about these images? They aren’t about confinement, confinement and more confinement. They’re about big gray skies and rugged organic elements all the way. (Okay, except for the bear.) Textures, aromas, animals, temperatures and move-it-or-lose-it situations that represent the absolute polar opposite of the kind of bullshit louche lifestyles worshipped and embraced by 21st Century laissez-faire yuppie scum. I for one am proud of having never watched a single fucking episode of Survivor. Side issue, no biggie: Why does this begin with the same footage and cutting included in the first trailer?

Earlier today Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil was telling me I have to make sure that my Gold Derby predictions square with my HE Oscar Balloon charts. He was focusing in particular on the Best Actress graph that I posted last Saturday in which I included Amy Schumer‘s Trainwreck performance in fifth or sixth place. Because I felt like it. Because now is the time for plugging your personal favorites every so often. I don’t give a damn if anyone agrees with me or not. I’m not placing bets at a dog track. It’s September and Schumer moved me, and so I included her. I’m just saying she deserves a shout-out. I don’t care if you don’t agree. I know what I know.

Earlier today David Poland tweeted that my Best Actress chart was “idiotic.” You know what’s idiotic or at least seriously lame? Ignoring your own aesthetic instincts so you can appear to be “right” in predicting likely favorites in late fucking September. I’ll play the prediction game to some extent but I reserve the right to promote exceptional work, regardless of how likely this or that choice may seem to Sasha Stone or Glenn Whipp or Scott Mantz. There’s plenty of time to start narrowing things down in late October, November and December.

Paul Verhoeven‘s Showgirls opened and crashed on 9.22.95. I’d attended a press screening a week or two before and figured that was enough, but I manfully sat through it a second time a couple of weeks after it opened, or sometime in early October. Reason? Jack Nicholson. Yeah, yeah, I’ve told this story a couple of times before but indulge me…

I was having dinner that night with Robert Evans in his combination rear bungalow and screening room. It was (and as far as I know still is) a cozy little abode located behind his circle-shaped pool in the backyard of his French chateau-styled place on Woodland Avenue. And the guests that night were Bryan Singer, Chris McQuarrie and Tom DeSanto. And we were all enjoying the great food (served by Alan, Evans’ good-guy butler) and a nice buzz from the excellent wine.

I was Evans’ journalist pallie back then.  I had written a big piece about Hollywood Republicans earlier that year for Los Angeles magazine, and Evans had been a very helpful source. As a favor I’d been arranging for him to meet some just-emerging GenX filmmakers — Singer, McQuarrie, Owen Wilson (who had come over a week or two earlier), Don Murphy, Jane Hamsher, et. al. — so that maybe, just maybe, he could possibly talk about making films with them down the road.

During the dinner Evans was doing a superb job of not asking Singer, McQuarrie or DeSantos anything about themselves. He spoke only about his past, his lore, his legend. But the vibe, to be sure, was cool and settled and almost serene. And then out of the blue (or out of the black of night) one of the French doors opened and Nicholson, wearing his trademark shades, popped his head in and announced to everyone without saying hello that “you guys should finish…don’t worry, don’t hurry or anything…we’ll just be in the house…take your time.”

I saw Kent Jones‘ Hitchcock/Truffaut in Paris on 5.11.15, and posted a review the next day: “This 80-something-minute doc is a sublime turn-on — a deft educational primer about the work and life of Alfred Hitchcock and, not equally but appreciably, Francois Truffaut. Efficient, well-ordered, devotional. The bounce, if you will, comes from the talking heads — David Fincher, Martin Scorsese, Olivier Assayas, Wes Anderson, Richard Linklater, James Gray, Arnaud Depleschin, one or two others — each enthused and semi-aglow in their own way. Memories, associations, gratitude.

“To me Hitchcock/Truffaut seems good and wise enough to seduce the novice as well as the sophisticated cineaste. It’s a fully absorbing, excellent education. As you might expect, it made me want to read the book all over again.

From The Guardian‘s Nigel Smith: “The Walk more closely resembles The Polar Express and Beowulf — Zemeckis’s patchy, uncanny-valley explorations into motion-capture — than Flight. For there is no semblance of reality here. As a live-action film, The Walk rings wholly false. For the whole of its two-hour running time, it plays like a Disney cartoon.” Or, as I wrote two days ago, “The first 100 minutes are like watching Ratatouille. If you’re a fan of dumbing stuff down for whatever reason, you’ll love The Walk. For Zemeckis has taken the real-life, inspirational saga of wire-walker Phillippe Petit and turned it into cliched, manipulative, family-friendly oatmeal.” And yet for voicing this and similar impressions, Glenn Kenny tweeted that my Walk review reveals me as “a puckered-up, joyless, vindictive miserabilist.”

A successful, genius-level guy loses it all due to drugs or alcohol or bad behavior, and then hits bottom and gets sober and gradually re-establishes himself with the help of a good team, and he ultimately re-ascends. That was more or less what Jon Favreau‘s Chef was about…right? I’m not particularly interested in the angry, alcoholic self-destructive period in the life of the egoistic Adam Jones (Bradley Cooper), and that I hope it’ll be over and done with within the first ten minutes of John Wells‘ Burnt (Weinstein Co., 10.23). Because self-destruction is dull and boring. Best line: “”If you were my girlfriend we would have gotten into an argument in the taxi…we wouldn’t even be talking.” The best chef-foodie movie is still Sandra Nettlebeck‘s Mostly Martha (’01).

Matt Damon has stepped into it again. He’s pissed off the LGBTs for saying it’s better for an actor to maintain a certain vague mystery about his/her orientation. Which is somewhat true, I feel. If you want to gossip about Cary Grant or Kevin Spacey‘s alleged liasons, fine, but I prefer not to think of them as sexual beings at all — I prefer to think of them as personalities and attitudes with hugely enjoyable skill sets. I don’t want to know who Grant might have been fucking. But the LGBTs are interpreting Damon’s views as supportive of closeted lifestyles, and are voicing disdain. In a 9.27 interview with The Guardian‘s Elizabeth Day, Damon says that “I think you’re a better actor the less people know about you, period. And sexuality is a huge part of that. Whether you’re straight or gay, people shouldn’t know anything about your sexuality because that’s one of the mysteries that you should be able to play.” He acknowledges how times have changed but also notes how “it’s tough to make the argument that Rupert Everett didn’t take a hit for being out.”

Last night I avoided Donald Trump‘s 60 Minutes interview as his lazy brain-fart spitball thinking gives me a headache. You can immediately sense how exhausting it is for Trump to assemble coherent sentences and thoughts, which in turn fatigues the listener. I confronted the segment this morning. Slogans, promises and hyperbole aimed at dipshits. This is like Sarah Palin‘s game-changing interview with Katie Couric. The man is clearly not interested in (or is baffled by) the complexity of things. One presumes that a guy who’s done as well in business as Trump has would have, you know, a little more going on upstairs. He seems all but witless. One presumes that a captain of industry would be gifted with…I don’t know but maybe an occasionally startling insight, some kind of loopy genius element, a certain intellectual agility. Trump has none of that. This is like listening to an under-educated, intellectually challenged middle-management guy or a forklift driver from some corner of rural dumbfuck America expounding on what to do about problems that are simply beyond his intellectual capacity to even grasp the basics of. The only thing I agreed with is his rule about no cigarettes, drugs or alcohol. Otherwise he’s an embarassment.