Translation: Cancel culture fanatics need to apologize for their epic awfulness and then STFU forever. Or commit ritual seppuku…whatever works.

Andrew Yang says Democrats need to improve their appeal to the working class: "In there minds the Democratic party unfortunately has taken on this role of the coastal urban elites who are more concerned about policing various cultural issues than improving their way of life." pic.twitter.com/UljmEH0sEn

— The Matt Skidmore Show (@ZachandMattShow) November 6, 2020

Fox, AP and Politico have declared Joe Biden the winner in Arizona, which gives him 264 electoral votes. So even without Pennsylvania or Georgia, which could tip Biden’s way, he’ll have 270 when the Nevada count is finally settled.

Chart courtesy of BBC.com

Wow — things got real at Trump’s unhinged press conference tonight!! 😳 pic.twitter.com/xByO6OhyoB

— Jon Cooper 🇺🇸 (@joncoopertweets) November 6, 2020

To not connect the below logo with the spirit of Howard Beale and the special (though now anachronistic) energy and poetry of Paddy Chayefsky’s Network is to truly miss the point of…Jesus, where do I start?

Peak Beale described himself as shatteringly alive, at one with nature and the universe and a vessel of crackling electrical energy. He claimed with some conviction to be imbued with the cosmic spirit that Hindus call “prana” —a state of knowing and being that is spaceless and timeless and aglow with “oh, such loveliness.”

For like anyone touched by satori, Beale had recognized he was merely a conduit for that which flows and surges through every living atomic particle in the universe, humming and throbbing with eternal energy and attuned to the cosmic altogether.

Herman Hesse, Aldous Huxley, Alan Watts, John Lennon, George Harrison, Donovan, Timothy Leary…they all knew and recognized Howard as one of their own.

Donald Trump is, was and always will be a craven, Queens-born real-estate hustler, and approximately a quarter-inch deep; Beale is, was and always will be a well-educated, thoroughly establishment media figure who stumbled into spiritual transcendence by way of low ratings, alcohol and despair.

I feel Beale-ishness within me. I always have. I say this as a survivor of alcoholism (in myself, my dad and his father before him) and a grateful graduate of the LSD school of the Baghavad Gita.

If I’d known last year or even last January that life as I knew it for decades and decades, a life that involved occasional joy and parties and adventure and travel and great restaurant meals and watching movies inside first-class theatres…if I’d known all of this would suddenly come to a crashing halt as of last February and that it would stay that way for many subsequent months…if I’d known this was in the cards I would have savored life as it used to be a lot more. I would’ve said to myself and to friends over and over, “I know this sounds sappy, but from a certain perspective our lives are fairly wonderful right now.”

The opening Mexico City action sequence in Sam Mendes‘ Spectre (’15) is arguably the coolest and certainly the most visually ambitious in the entire Bond canon. But there’s a dividing line.

If you’re a serious film monk you prefer the opening four minutes, which is purely about exciting design and atmosphere, perfectly executed choreography and dazzling camerawork — a grade-A Scorsese moment. And if you’re a popcorn-level goon you’ll prefer the second clip, which goes crazy with CG and outlandish action starting at the 1:50 mark.

I don’t know the exact figures but the goons probably outnumber the cineastes by an approximate ratio of 20 to 1, and that’s why action films are made the way they are these days. But kudos to Mendes for at least delivering the opening four.

As I understand the current formula or mindset, anyone spitballing the 2020 Best Picture nominations needs to favor progressive-minded contenders as liberally as possible, regardless of how good they might be on their own terms or what the Movie Godz might say. At least three or four out of ten, and preferably five. An Oscar handicapper ignores or under-values wokester favorites at his or her own peril. Just ask Tom O’Neill and the Gold Derby crowd.

Right now the rock-solid, no-special-consideration contenders are five — Chloe Zhao‘s Nomadland, David Fincher‘s Mank, Aaron Sorkin’s The Trial of the Chicago 7, Florian Zeller‘s The Father and Lee Isaac Chung‘s Minari (although the latter is a little more of a Spirit Awards thing than a great-guns Oscar contender, even with Steven Yeun‘s performance warranting a potential Best Actor nomination).

In all candor and conviction I believe that Azazel Jacobs‘ French Exit and Rod Lurie‘s The Outpost also belong in this category because they occupy and inform their respective territories (sardonic-fatalistic dry humor and hyper-frenetic, true-life battle jitters) with great style and strong characters. They don’t need any favors. Both stand on their own two feet and look you right in the eye.

I also believe that Chris Nolan‘s Tenet, for all the difficulty understanding the dialogue or plot particulars (and I really can’t wait to watch it with subtitles when the Bluray hits on 12.15), is a major accomplishment — a daring, highly original, high-powered action film with eye-popping sequences that I’ve never before seen in my life.

So that’s five rock solids and three “totally owning their own turf” films that deserve Best Picture contender status. Eight altogether.

I’ve seen Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy. It’s a familiar-feeling people movie about a guy struggling to walk his own path despite a dysfunctional family upbringing and dispiriting cultural influences. A lot of difficult behavior from Amy Adams’ character, but the story is the story and the film accomplishes what it sets out to do. And Glenn Close is great as “Mamaw.”

Due respect for Regina King‘s One Night in Miami, but it’s a well-written, well-acted ensemble film that is more good than great.

Nobody’s seen News of the World, The Prom, Judas and the Black Messiah or Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. And I haven’t gotten around to Ammonite or Promising Young Woman.

Good or even brilliant as it may be, Soul is animated and therefore ineligible for the Best Picture Oscar.

I’m not stupid. I understand what I should say (or would be wise to say) in order to curry favor with all the distributors and publicists. You have to blow with the prevailing winds to get along — I realize that. But who else is respectfully standing outside the kneejerk wokester hivemind cabal like Hollywood Elsewhere? Who else among Oscar prognosticators assesses the situation with at least a semblance of backbone? Like it or not, but there are many Academy and guild members who see things as I do, which is to say straight and true without any p.c. blather or tapdancing. And that is HE’s value.

TYT’s John Iadarola: “I think the Republican mind is flexible in that it is empty. And thus, like a garden hose…when a garden hose is empty it can be bent for whatever you need it to do.”

James Carville: “Pennsylvania’s gonna be fine. I’m not at all worried about Pennsylvania. Arizona is done. Nevada’s done. I’m keepin’ my eye on Georgia right now. At the end of the day this is not gonna be a particularly close election. Biden will win the popular vote by more than Obama did in 2012. He will probably…not certainly but probably end up with 307 [electoral] votes. I know it’s been nerve-wracking for a lot of people, but it’s not that close.”

True story: In early ’75 I was working for a Los Angeles tree-trimming outfit. (This was right at the end of my “secret genius” period.) We needed the owner to unlock a large gate to the back yard. I rang the front-door bell a couple of times…nothing. We went over to a screened-in patio area on the side and knocked on the screen door. A high-pitched woman’s voice said “come in!” I explained who we were, etc. “Come in!” I’d begun to suspect a Mynah bird, but just to be polite I repeated that the gate had to be unlocked. “Come in!”

The bird also did a great wolf whistle.

The name of the company was A. Kelley Tree Service. The owner was Bob Kelley, a muscular, dark-haired Irishman with a temper problem. He stuck the “A” in front of his last name so the company would be listed first in the Yellow Pages. Bob could be a charmer when he turned it on, but his anger would always pop through under stress. A co-worker named Nick explained to me once that “when Bob gets angry, it’s mainly because he’s angry at himself.” Bob was married but had a girlfriend on the side. He also had a suspicious or disapproving attitude about non-Anglos.