World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy is reporting — no surprise — that Jane Campion‘s The Power of the Dog almost won the NYFCC Best Picture prize. And that the winner, Ryusuke Hamaguchi‘s 179-minute Drive My Car, “barely edged” the Campion.

Paul Thomas Anderson’s respectable, moderately pleasing Licorice Pizza “finished a distant third.” And Hamaguchi “came very close” to winning the Best Director trophy.

Lady Gaga‘s Best Actress win “wasn’t a unanimous decision”, but she had more supporters than the far more deserving Renate Reinsve (The Worst Person in the World) and Parallel Mothers‘ Penelope Cruz (my personal choice). The Lost Daughter‘s Olivia Colman finished fourth.

The Power of the Dog‘s Benedict Cumberbatch, the NYFCC’s Best Actor champ, will not overtake King Richard‘s Will Smith when it comes to the Oscars — trust me.

When they voted to hand Lady Gaga their 2021 Best Actress award, the New York Film Critics Circle knew they were smirking, half-kidding, succumbing…they’re supposed to be the fickle hardcore weirdos who always vote political-progressive…the austere, top-of-the-line, above-the-fray guys. And when push came to shove, they tumbled for a performance that they knew was mainly a populist sop…push came to shove and a majority decided “shit, how cool would it be for Lady Gaga, a major tabloid glamour-puss, to attend our awards ceremony?” They know Penelope Cruz‘s performance in Parallel Mothers is way, way above Gaga’s, and they voted for Gaga anyway. Giving it to Jessica Chastain for The Eyes of Tammy Faye would have been a more honorable choice. Or Being The Ricardos‘ Nicole Kidman. Or Alana Haim even.

…with two beggars staring holes at you. Give us a piece of your croissant, please. or half a spoonful of that chicken salad you bought last night. Feel our longing…please.

11:55 am: As we speak the New York Film Critics Circle has decided upon four awards: The Power of the Dog‘s Kodi Smit-McPhee for Best Supporting Actor (I don’t get it), The Tragedy of Macbeth‘s Kathryn Hunter for Best Supporting Actress (haven’t seen it), Joachim Trier‘s The Worst Person in the World for Best Foreign-Language Film (excellent choice!) and Flee for Best Non-Fiction film.

No updates until the mid-afternoon — Variety‘s Clayton Davis is keeping tabs.

11:30 am: Hollywood Elsewhere will finally shake hands with Sutton Wells early this afternoon. I’ll be leaving Manhattan within the hour, taking the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey and over to West Orange. Staying the weekend, etc.

Ebenezer Scrooge to daughter-in-law: “Can you forgive a pig-headed old fool for having no eyes to see with nor ears to hear with all these years?”

John Huston‘s Noah Cross to Belinda Palmer‘s Katherine Mulwray in Chinatown: “Katherine, I’m…I’m…I’m your grandfather.”

The title of Paul Verhoeven‘s upcoming Washington, D.C.-based thriller implies that most sinners aren’t “young” — they tend to come into their best sinning in their mid 30s, 40s and 50s. The title also reminds me of The Young and the Restless. It also reminds me of Young Frankenstein.

From World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy…

HE’s #1 mantra: If a movie ends well, that’s half the ballgame. Let no one ever argue that Guillermo del Toro‘s Nightmare Alley (Searchlight, 12.17) doesn’t end well. It ends perfectly, in fact. It reiterates the basic film noir theme, which boils down to the main character fatalistically admitting that he’s doomed, and in fact has been doomed all along. He never had a chance, and his dark fate is so irrefutable that it’s funny.

Film noir basically says that none of us have a chance. Which we don’t if your definition of having a chance means escaping death. We’re all going to die. But if I had accepted this fatalistic, fuck-me doctrine when I was in my teens or 20s my life wouldn’t have worked out. So noirs are basically films with a bad attitude. They all say that noir protagonists are fucked and can’t “win” because they’re essentially self-destructive by way of some basic flaw or weakness, and that most of our dreams and schemes will never pan out.

Let no one say that Nightmare Alley hasn’t been masterfully composed — it’s all visually harmonized (the dp is Dan Laustsen) and exquisitely designed. Half of it radiates a rural travelling carnival vibe, the other half a snow-blanketed, pre-war urban (deco-moderne) gloom. And yet all of a piece…persistent and narcotizing and finally overwhelming.

HE to friend outside multiplex: “Yo…what are you seeing?”
Friend to HE: “Nightmare Alley. I’m a Guillermo fan, and I don’t care if it has no monsters.”
HE to friend: “I just saw it.”
Friend to HE: “And…?”
HE to friend: “Great cinematography and production design, lotsa gloom, good performances.”
Friend to HE: “But how is it?”
HE to friend: “You’re on your own, man. I’ll tell you this much — Bradley Cooper smokes 50 or 60 unfiltered cigarettes. Every damn scene he lights up, and it’s infuriating.”

When and if you watch Nightmare Alley (and I am recommending that you do) you need to accept from the get-go that Cooper’s Stan Carlisle is fucked — an asshole and a cruel hustler who’s determined to downswirl and self-destruct, and that how he manages to ruin his life as well as kill or maim those around him is just a matter of time, circumstance and opportunity.

But the ending, man…that ending is exquisite.