I found a place in my head for By The Sea (Universal, 11.13). I know what this kind of low-key, vaguely depressing, damaged-relationship film is supposed to do so I was prepared. And if you know this also and can just settle in and let it unfold at its own pace…it’s somewhere between mildly okay and a little better than that.

Yes, you would be correct in assuming it’s not the equal of Michelangelo Antonioni‘s La Notte (’62) but it’s close enough — a sophisticated middle-aged glumathon, a marriage coming apart, alcohol and cigarettes, the whiff of infidelity, the husband having trouble writing like he used to. It’s certainly coming from the same downish, semi-lethargic European art-film ballpark. Quiet, intimate, slowish and yet, after a fashion, disciplined. If you can roll with this kind of mood trip, By The Sea isn’t half bad. Really.  It’s more than tolerable.

Plus it has a nice erotic vibe that develops during the second half. A nice bathtub sex scene at the two-thirds mark. Plus Angelina’s bathroom boobies pop through two or three times. And it’s fascinating to just watch these two play off each other like grown-up, disappointed, starting-to-look-older human beings without the Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit. Plus Brad and Angie speak French-with-subtitles a third of the time. It should also be noted that false eyelashes are a significant part of Angie’s performance, at least during the first half.

And despite the depressive, lying-around-and-doing-next-to-nothing-except-drinking-and-smoking-and-and-staring-at-the-sea atmosphere, By The Sea does manage to evolve. Once the Act One lethargy has had its say, Act Two turns up the heat a bit, pivots, builds and goes somewhere. Brad Pitt finally says, “No, I don’t want a fucking drink.” And then he beats the shit out of a guy who starts to unbutton his wife’s blouse. And each scene ends a little earlier than you might expect it to. That’s usually a trait of a director who knows what he/she is doing.

For 53 years the Bond films have, with variations, started out with the same half-silhouette of a lethal guy in a suit walking west inside a bobbing circle, and then he does a 90-degree pivot as he quickly swings or arcs his right arm in our direction and fires. For over half a century the extra second it takes to swing or whip around has driven me nuts. The way Mr. Lethal should have been doing it all these years is as follows: He crouches slightly, half-pivots (i.e., 45 degrees), raises his left arm in a horizontal balancing gesture and fires under the left arm without physically turning his whole bod and facing the target straight on. In short, he twists and shoots. The whole reason for the idiotic swing-around firing (which we’ve been seeing since 1962’s Dr. No) is to make certain his left arm has nothing to do with his aim or balance. Dopey. Raise it, horizontally cock it — problem solved.

In the first full-boat trailer for Star Wars: The Force Awakens, which popped two and a half weeks ago, an older woman’s voice asks Daisy Ridley “Who are you?” Ridley’s reply: “Ahmahwan.” In the new Japanese trailer, which has more footage than the U.S. version, she replies “I’m no one.” Conclusion: the sound on the Japanese trailer has better mixing than the U.S. version. Most likely the Japanese marketers heard about the “ahmahwan” bitching and re-mixed the line so it sounds like RADA English.

The thing I love about this Key Largo scene is that nothing happens but you can feel all kinds of things waiting to. Okay, one thing happens at the end when Thomas Gomez answers the phone and lies about Lionel Barrymore and Lauren Bacall‘s whereabouts, but the rest is all premonitions — that feeling in the air when rain is about to hit. Sidenote: Two years after Key Largo opened in ’48, Harry Lewis, the flashy gangster with the idiot laugh, teamed with girlfriend Marilyn Friedman to open the first Hamburger Hamlet at the corner of Sunset and Hilldale. Initial investment was $3,500. HH grew into a chain of 24 locations, and was sold in ’87 for $29.2 million. Lewis died two and a half years ago at age 93.

A few days ago I posted a riff about Will Smith being regarded in some quarters as an eccentric-orbit kind of guy, and therefore is probably looking at an uphill effort to win a Best Actor nomination for his performance as Dr. Bennet Omalu, the real-life forensic pathologist who discovered chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), in Peter Landesman‘s Concussion (Sony, 12.25). Reaction from guy who’s seen Concussion: “Uh, no. And by the way, there were only three standing ovations at Hollywood Film Awards last Sunday night — Jane Fonda, Robert De Niro and….Will Smith.” To which I responded, “I suspect they were applauding his fame and monetary success, not the man and certainly not the artist.” Concussion guy: “Not so sure. But maybe, just maybe, you should wait to see the film (it’s great) before beginning the takedown.” Me: “What takedown? I have no dog in this. Smith’s rep is his rep.”

The Hateful Eight‘s cinematography is, I really must say, remarkably handsome and very nicely lighted. One observation: When Jennifer Jason Leigh mimics the act of being hung the gesture seems way outside the historical realm of the film. I realize this is taking place in Tarantino Land, of course, and not the real Old West, but sticking your tongue out as you pretend to choke to death…that feels like something aimed at the folks in the cheap seats.

It’ll be reality-facing time tonight for Angelina Jolie‘s By The Sea (Universal, 11.13). The ’70s-style “European art film” (a description offered by a Universal guy as well as Tom Brokaw in his recently aired Today report) opens the 2015 AFI Fest at the Chinese with the screening expected to begin around…oh, figure 8 or 8:15 pm despite the official 7:30 pm screening time. Jolie recently told N.Y. Times contributor Margy Rochlin that “I know some people are going to hate it…some are going to like it…but it was important to me to feel like an artist again.” It’ll be facing a tough house, let’s face it, but I like old-fashioned European art films about crumbling marriages. Just don’t, you know, bore me — that’s all I ask. Just maintain story tension. And throw in a surprise or two. And don’t be too gloomy. Maybe throw in a little pervy sex. And be as good as the last half-hour in Richard Linklater‘s Before Midnight. And try to reanimate the spirit of Harold Pinter.

I always feel a certain serenity when I’m in working in a Starbucks cafe, especially after the morning rush hour when there’s not too much traffic. Vibe is right, music is agreeable, people are low-key…this is where I belong, where I could stay for hours. But it’s extra nice when it’s a little cool outside (L.A.’s Panamanian weather cycle finally ended two or three weeks ago) and especially when they’re serving cappuccinos in those red holiday cups. That means November, scarves, the scent of spices, the approach of the holidays, etc.

There’s nothing to say except “yes, of course” to Carey Mulligan‘s performance as the long-suffering Maud in Sarah Gavron‘s Suffragette. She’s playing the Sad-Eyed Lady of the London Lowlands, and in my book performances don’t get any sadder or subtler than this one. I guess I could be liberal and say Maud is more-or-less on the same keel with Saoirse Ronan‘s Eilis in Brooklyn (i.e., the other slamdunky Best Actress contender). If you want to do cartwheels for Brie Larson‘s obsessive, stringy-haired performance in Room, knock yourself out …but you also need to come down to earth and admit that Mulligan is way, way more nominatable. Maud, I feel, is her new signature role — yes, more so than her breakout performance in An Education.

Suffragette star Carey Mulligan during last night’s press gathering at Lucques — roughly 6:55 pm or thereabouts.

Less than 2 seconds later.

1.5 seconds after that.

Meryl Streep is the 60something version of a classic gold-standard brand she created some 36 or 37 years ago. Cate Blanchett is the 40something version of…well, not the same thing, of course, but close enough, obviously rendered with her own particular artistry, brushstrokes and genetic code. And Mulligan is the just-turned-30something version with decades to come and miles to go. And everyone knows this.

Last night there was a “hang out with Carey” gathering at Lucques, the upmarket restaurant on Melrose. I didn’t arrive until 6 pm or so. Mulligan looks amazingly thin for someone who just gave birth…what was it, six or seven weeks ago? (Her daughter’s name is Evelyn.) I’ve “been” through two pregnancies (just ask Glenn Kenny) and therefore know a little something about what it takes to shed after delivery. It’s no walk in the park.

I told Carey I was hugely impressed by her stage performance in David Hare‘s Skylight, which I saw last May in New York. I asked if anyone had captured it on video, and she said no, not for commercial consumption but that it had been video-captured and sent to certain parties out here via a private link. I asked her publicist if I could be allowed to re-see it this way. I’m sensing that it might happen.

At the eight-second mark a guy who looks like the father or the paternal uncle of Slashfilm’s Peter Sciretta appears. No biggie — just mentioning this.

Quentin Tarantino sounded reasonable and matter-of-fact yesterday when he spoke to MSNBC’s Chris Hayes about the cop-boycott thing. I thoroughly respect his decision to not back off one iota. Publicists are always telling their clients to walk it back and apologize and ask the public to cut them a break — not Tarantino. Between the cop thing, Ultra Panavision 70 and the probable “n”-word and Samuel L. Jackson blowjob controversies, QT and The Hateful Eight are doing just fine. Everything is ducky & cool because a lot of people who might have conceivably side-stepped this film are now going to pay closer attention and most likely pay to see it. Plus the n-word thing has been more or less neutralized. How is that a negative?

We’re all just passing through. Everything fades, evaporates, decays, falls apart. All the more reason to cherish serenity when it happens to find you or you it, which doesn’t happen all that often. Screenwriter Melissa Mathison, who passed Wednesday in Los Angeles at age 65, had a hand in making a few movie moments seem somewhat magical. Like E.T., The Extra Terrestrial, which she wrote. I’ll never forget how I felt after my first press screening of that film in the spring of ’82, a few weeks before it opened and the mass audience got hold of it and turned it into something I’d rather not think about. The light was upon Mathison back then; she got married to Harrison Ford the following year (’83), and they wound up having two sons. She also wrote The Black Stallion, The Escape Artist and the forthcoming The BFG. Nothing lasts, everyone dies…but life never stops happening. Sorry but this is what hit me just after I read the story.