To have gone from being led by arguably the finest, most forward-thinking U.S. President in decades to arguably the absolute worst animal to hold public office in the history of democracy is just…shattering, devastating, soul-crushing. Variety‘s Scott Tobias: “Add…the splash of cold water on Election Night and The Final Year feels like the end of a story no one intended to tell. With the U.S. backing out of the Paris climate deal, decimating the State Department, and, most recently, reintroducing its trade embargo against Cuba, President Trump has leveled all those tough negotiations like a kid kicking down a sand castle. Try as it might, the film can’t spin its way out of despair.”

HE favorite Call Me By Your Name has scored six 2017 Spirit Award nominations, compared to five for Get Out and Good Time and four for Lady Bird and The Rider. If you know anything about Spirit Award-voting tendencies, the six noms — Best Feature, Best Director (Luca Guadagnino), Best Editing (Walter Fasano), Best Male Lead (Timothee Chalamet), Best Supporting Male (Armie Hammer) and Best Cinematography (Sayombhu Mukdeeprom) — make CMBYN (a) an odds-on favorite to take the Best Feature Spirit trophy and (b) locks it down as a major Oscar nomination threat on these fronts, particularly Best Picture.

Over the last three years, the Spirit Award Best Feature prize and the Best Picture Oscar have been won by the same film — Moonlight, Spotlight and Birdman. It’s happened, in fact, in five out of the past six years, starting with 2011’s The Artist. The Spirits didn’t go for Argo in 2012, but they went for 12 Years a Slave in ’13 followed by Birdman, Spotlight and Moonlight.

All of those Gurus and Gold Derby group-thinkers who’ve been listing Call Me By Your Name in sixth or seventh place on their roster of most likely Best Pic contenders are now twirling around and saying to themselves, “Uh-oh…hamma hamma hamma…I’d better recalculate my predictions and upgrade Luca’s film to at least second or third place or people will think I’m out of step with the culture!” Trust me, they are literally muttering this to themselves right now.

I’ve been saying that while 2016 Best Picture Oscar for Moonlight was largely about making up for “Oscars So White”, 2017 is, performance-wise and possibly otherwise, about the Year of the Ballsy, Go-For-It Independent Woman — Greta Gerwig and Saoirse Ronan‘s Lady Bird triumph, Meryl Streep‘s Katharine Graham performance in The Post, Frances McDormand‘s lead perf in Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, Sally Hawkins as a fantasy-driven cleaning woman in The Shape of Water, Margot Robbie in I, Tonya.

And I mean especially in the current climate of women pushing back everywhere against workplace sexual harassment. It all fits together.

This told me that the most likely recipient of this cultural moment might be Lady Bird, and by that I mean guaranteed Oscar noms for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actress and so on. That still seems likely, but before this morning I was half-presuming that Lady Bird might take more Spirit Award noms that any other film. But that hasn’t happened. Lady Bird has been nominated for Best Feature, Best Screenplay (Gerwig), Best Actress (Ronan) and one other.

Now this — this — is first-degree sexual harassment…creepy, leering, odious, manipulative. And just like that, the soothing, intellectually intriguing Charlie Rose interview — a staple of thinking people’s TV-watching habits for the last 26 years — is gone, out the window, poof.

Which isn’t to lament in any way, shape or form the punishment and pushback that Rose is now receiving (he’s just been whacked by CBS), but simply to say “too bad…really a shame.”

Because the PBS Charlie Rose show…well, who knows but how can that continue in this climate? Update: PBS has just cancelled the PBS Charlie Rose hour.

Next to the Washington Post‘s Charlie Rose saga, the Al Franken thing (aggressive kissing during USO sketch rehearsal, sophomoric pretend-boob-grabbing for a photo, alleged ass-fondling at Minnesota state fair) pales by comparison. Rose and Franken may share aspects of a certain older-male-privelege psychology, but 36 former SNL women who worked with Franken in the ’80s have posted a letter stating that “not one of us ever experienced any inappropriate behavior; and mention our sincere appreciation that [Franken] treated each of us with the utmost respect and regard.” Something tells me a similar congregation isn’t going to write a letter supporting Rose.

The default definition of net neutrality is more or less “a regulatory determination to protect the even-steven, no-special-priveleges, common-carrier nature of the internet. No big-money interests and corresponding URLs enhancing their position with the public via high-throttle delivery speeds.”

Two and 2/3 years ago Tom Wheeler‘s Federal Communications Commission ruled in favor of net neutrality. The rule took effect on 6.12.15. Now Trump’s FCC chairman Ajit Pai, a Republican flunky who was confirmed only a few weeks ago, has announced an intention to repeal net neutrality at its 12.14.17 meeting. He’s basically shilling for the rich guys, of course. Strong legal challenges will ensue.

Written in May 2014 by N.Y. Times media savant David Carr: “Why should you, as someone who just wants to use the web to surf or watch programming, care whether companies like Netflix and Hulu have to pay companies like Comcast and Verizon to ensure smooth feeds? Well, even though consumers won’t be charged directly for the faster service, we all know where those fee increases will end up landing.”

This MSNBC video essay about Donald Trump‘s involvement with Russia and vice versa last 14 minutes. That’s an awfully long viewing investment by today’s standards. I’m aware that many summations of Trump-Russia collusion and complicity have been posted. But to my eyes and ears, this one’s especially arresting.

Tapping this out from a Miami Beach Starbucks, NE corner of Washington Ave. and 12th Street. American flight 1147 to Los Angeles leaves around 9 pm this evening, arrives at midnight. Drove out of Key West this morning at 10:30 am, two pit stops (one for coffee, another to visit the original African Queen scow, which is moored in Key Largo), arrived in Miami Beach around 3 pm. We parked near 728 Ocean Blvd. to visit the remnants of the Tony Montana chainsaw motel, just south of 17th Street — it’s been converted into a CVS.

Stiles Hotel, Collins Ave., South Beach.

Kent Hotel, 1131 Collins, Ave., South Beach.

Carniverous tarpon and a grouper waiting for scraps of butchered fish to be tossed into the harbor water.

The first N.Y. and L.A. screenings of Steven Spielberg‘s The Post happened yesterday. Press viewers are embargoed on all platforms until further notice, but the second-hand buzz is encouraging.

“We’re not allowed to say it’s good,” quipped a New York guy. “Perfect Spielberg in top form,” said another, “and Meryl [Streep] dazzles. Spielberg will definitely be back in the running for Best Director.” A person who attended the NYC screening said it’s “no Spotlight” although he thinks it will receive a Best Picture nom regardless. “Spotlight was an All the President’s Men imprint — this isn’t,” says another.

I personally admire the speed with which The Post was put together. Spielberg joined the project last March, and filming began on 5.30.17. Not that The Post needs any slack or leeway, but it’s almost as if it needs to be graded differently than a normal Spielberg flick as he was following a Clint Eastwood timetable. HE is looking forward to seeing it very soon.

No columnist is obliged to riff on the death of Charles Manson, surely the most despised and deplored murderer and arch-criminal of the last 50 years, and probably the last century. An instinct is telling me that the less said, the better.

Manson’s brief destructive spree in 1969 made his last name into a kind of demonic brand, which in successive decades was used partly for ironic comedy. Manson Family Vacation, which I quite liked by the way. “Manson!”, the Lassie-like skit from the early ’90s Ben Stiller Show. Marilyn Manson.

No one’s forgetting, of course, that Quentin Tarantino‘s “Manson in the backdrop” movie will begin shooting in June.

Nobody has to ruminate on this monster or ponder his legend. Or poke a stick at it like a burnt-out fire. The best way to absorb the reality is via Karina Longworth‘s “You Must Remember This” podcast, which goes on for twelve episodes. For me the definitive Manson read is still Ed Sanders‘ “The Family,” with Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry‘s “Helter Skelter” running a close second.

Two days ago Vanity Fair‘s Rebecca Keegan reported two interesting tidbits about Quentin Tarantino‘s 1969 “not Manson” film, which will be produced and distributed by Sony Pictures.

First, a thumbnail synopsis according to somebody who’s read the script: “Set in Los Angeles in the summer of 1969, Tarantino’s upcoming movie…focuses on a male TV actor who’s had one hit series and his looking for a way to get into the film business. His sidekick — who’s also his stunt double — is looking for the same thing. The horrific murder of Sharon Tate and four of her friends by Charles Manson’s cult of followers serves as a backdrop to the main story.”

Second, a rumor that Tarantino wants Sony to give him “a production budget of close to $100 million, first-dollar gross and final cut on the film…it’s not yet clear if Sony has agreed to all these terms.”

If I was in Rothman’s shoes, I would tell Tarantino to take his “close to $100 million” budget demand and shoveituphisass.

I would say that as much as I like the idea of Quentin Tarantino time-tripping back to the late ’60s, the truth is that I stopped really liking his scripts 20 years ago. I would tell him that whatever kind of golden touch he had during the making of Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown left him a long time ago, and that he’s been more or less coasting on the fumes of those films all through the aughts. And I’d tell him I hated The Hateful Eight.

I’d tell Tarantino that I’ll go $50 or $60 million, tops, and that a profit participation deal needs to be agreed to. No humungous upfront checks for anyone — just decent-sized ones. If anybody wants a super payday, they’re going to have to risk it along with me. If the ’60s film is a big hit, we’ll all profit handsomely. If it’s not a big success, which is what I suspect will happen, then I won’t take such a big bath.

Tarantino will reportedly begin shooting “not Manson” in June. All Los Angeles locations.

Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio, ages 55, 53 and 43 respectively, are being considered for the role of the TV actor who’s trying to break into films. Question for HE readers: If you were looking to cast the role of a TV actor looking to break into films, which would almost certainly be someone in his late 20s or 30s, would you cast a 55 year-old like Cruise or a 53 year-old like Pitt?

I was at my lowest ebb last night. The walls were closing in. Anxiety meter in the red zone. And then, like the best elder brother I never had, a fellow New Jerseyan sauntered into the room and said “get hold of yourself, paisan…never let ’em see you sweat.” Then he said, “Here, have a drink.” My reply was on the sheepish side: “Uhm, I don’t drink…five years plus.” Mr. New Jersey gave me a disapproving look. “Maybe you should,” he said. “Naah…I’m good,” I replied. He shook his head. “Pretty much,” I added. Suddenly I felt better. I had stood my ground.