As Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name is largely spoken in English and costars Armie Hammer and Michael Stuhlbarg, and particularly given what a flat-out masterpiece it is, I don’t see why this sensual Italian-shot drama shouldn’t be a Best Picture contender a year from now. I don’t know how it’ll shake out rules-and-regulation-wise, but this a landmark film that deserves to be heralded as a major Oscar contender.

Here, by the way, are portions from my favorite review thus far, penned by Vanity Fair‘s Richard Lawson:

Excerpt #1: “A film of such dizzying beauty and rich, genuine feeling…a swirling wonder, a film about coming of age, about the secrets of youth, the magic of summer, the beauty of Italy. As a steady and unrelenting snow descended on Park City, Call Me by Your Name kissed Sundance with light and warmth.”

Excerpt #2: “Guadagnino has created something of such texture, such power that it’s hard to talk about it in less than hyperbolic terms.

Excerpt #3: “Call Me By Your Name is narrative in that it tells the short, bittersweet story of Elio and Oliver, but it is more a terrarium of human experience, a sensory immersion that is remarkably full in its vision. Guadagnino fills every scene with life — people, insects, plants. Each shot is busy with existence, but Guadagnino does not overwhelm.

Except #4: “Working with cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, Guadagnino gives Call Me by Your Name the faded vibrancy of an old postcard, of a treasured memory. It’s an exquisitely composed film, blessed by terrific performances and perfectly scored by a selection of classical compositions and a pair of new songs by Sufjan Stevens.

The Sundance Film Festival’s last big arthouse hope — Andrew Dosunmu‘s Where Is Kyra?, a funereal quicksand piece about an unemployed middle-aged woman (Michelle Pfeiffer) in a terrible financial jam — screened last night at the Marc, and it’s more or less a bust. (That’s my opinion, at least.) It’s a carefully calibrated, well-acted, oppressive gloomhead flick that feels like it’s happening inside a coffin or crypt. This is Dosunmu’s deliberate strategy, of course, but the end-of-the-road, my-life-is-over vibe is primarily manifested by the inky, mineshaft palette of dp Bradford Young — HE’s least favorite cinematographer by a country mile.

Most of the big buyers will be leaving Park City today, which means that barring some huge, out-of-the-blue surprise, the festival has produced only three significant standouts: (1) Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name (which I totally flipped for two days ago), (2) Michael Showalter and Kumail Nanjiani‘s The Big Sick and (3) Jeremy Gasper‘s Patti Cake$, which I blew off last night in order to see Michael Almereyda‘s Marjorie Prime — another bust. (I’ll catch Patti Cake$ on Friday, 1.27 at the Prospector.)

There are plenty of cool-sounding films yet to screen. I’m especially interested in Marina Zenovich‘s Water & Power: A California Heist, Miguel Arteta‘s Beatriz at Dinner and Brian Knappenberger‘s NOBODY SPEAK: Hulk Hogan, Gawker and the Trials of a Free Press, all of which will be press-screened today.

Thank God that the lah-lahs, the corporates and the giggling entourages are leaving today. Now the real film festival can begin. Shorter lines, less intensity, increased cinephile devotion.

With 14 nominations collected, La La Land obviously has the Best Picture Oscar in the bag. Damien Chazelle is all but locked for Best Director, and Emma Stone is all but assured for Best Actress…right?

HE faves: Elle‘s Isabelle Huppert for Best Actress…yes! Nocturnal Animals‘ Michael Shannon among the nominees for Supporting Actor. Asghar Farhadi‘s The Salesman among Best Foreign Language Feature nominees. Hidden Figures‘ Octavia Spencer among Best Supporting Actress nominees!

Slight but Approved Surprise: Captain Fantastic‘s Viggo Mortensen among Best Actor nominees. Loving‘s Ruth Negga among Best Actress nominees — deserved but not entirely expected as her campaign seemed to be on a low flame throughout Phase One.

Curious Omissions: Arrival‘s Amy Adams blown off for Best Actress nomination. Florence Foster Jenkins‘ Hugh Grant shafted regarding expected Best Supporting Actor nomination; ditto Sully‘s Tom Hanks for Best Actor. What happened to 20th Century Women‘s Annette Bening?

HE Complaint: Hidden Figures‘ Kevin Costner should have been nominated for Best Supporting Actor instead of (no offense, due respect) Lion‘s Dev Patel, whose performance struck me as somewhat cloying and dewy-eyed.

Best Picture: Arrival, Fences, Hacksaw Ridge, Hell or High Water, Hidden Figures, La La Land, Manchester by the Sea, Lion, Moonlight.

Best Actor: Manchester‘s Casey Affleck (locked), Hacksaw Ridge‘s Andrew Garfield, La La Land‘s Ryan Gosling, Captain Fantastic‘s Viggo Mortensen, Fences‘ Denzel Washington.

Best Actress: Elle‘s Isabelle Huppert, Loving‘s Ruth Negga, Jackie‘s Natalie Portman, La La Land‘s Emma Stone (most likely winner), Florence Foster Jenkins‘ Meryl Streep.

Best Supporting Actor: Moonlight‘s Mahershala Ali, Hell or High Water‘s Jeff Bridges, Manchester By The Sea‘s Lucas Hedges, Lion‘s Dev Patel, Nocturnal Animals‘ Michael Shannon.

Best Supporting Actress: Fences‘ Viola Davis, Moonlight‘s Naomie Harris, Lion‘s Nicole Kidman, Hidden Figures‘ Octavia Spencer, Manchester‘s Michelle Williams.

Best Director: Arrival‘s Denis Villeneuve, Hacksaw Ridge‘s Mel Gibson (officially off the pariah list), La La Land‘s Damien Chazelle, Manchester‘s Kenneth Lonergan, Moonlight‘s Barry Jenkins.

Maya Forbes and Wallace Wolodarsky‘s The Polka King is a briskly paced, broad-brush tragicomedy that’s aimed at the none-too-hips. It’s funny and engaging as far as it goes — a kind of regional (i.e., Pennsylvania-based) farcical screwball thing. It has a tightly sprung comic attitude, and is packed (as you might presume) with traditional polka music, colorful, behind-the-eight-ball characters and all kinds of local douchebag flavor.

It’s a bit like The Wolf of Wall Street in that it’s about a manic, larger-than-life polka-singing hustler — the real-life Jan Lewan — who ponzi-schemed his way into a five-year jail sentence about 15 years ago. The difference is that while Wolf was a half-satirical portrait of predatory financial-market culture, Polka King is about a guy who tries to flim-flam his way out of financial difficulty only to wind up in an even deeper hole.

You know going in that the buoyant, Polish-born Jan (entertainingly nailed by the great Jack Black) is headed for a fall, so the movie is basically a waiting game — how long before Jan’s bullshit finally catches up with him? The Polka King therefore lives or dies based on how diverting or hilarious you find delusion and denial as the hallmarks of a business plan.

I for one didn’t find it hugely amusing –the only film about relentless lying and flim-flammery that I’ve liked was Robert Zemeckis‘ Used Cars — but I took the ride and had a decent-enough time. I recognize that others who caught The Polka King last night (as I did) are down with it more than I, and that it may well prove a commercial success.

The title of Rian Johnson‘s Episode VIII Star Wars film, opening next December, is Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Presumably this alludes to Daisy Ridley‘s Rey, who of course is imbued with The Force and was, and at the end of The Force Awakens, well on her way to becoming a Jedi extraordinaire. But how is it that she’s the “last” Jedi? There wouldn’t be much point to the Jedi Order if there was only one devoted channeler. As The Force is an eternal cosmic current of incredible energy and wisdom for all Jedi knights, what the hell sense does it make for Rey to the “last” person in the universe to tap into it? Movie and book titles using the adjective “last” always allude to a dying breed, the end of a tradition. In what way could Jedi-ism and the The Force be dying or running out of steam in the Star Wars universe? Seriously, Rian — this makes no sense.

Tapped out on iPhone at 8:45 pm from Park City’s Eccles tent:  “Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name is an instant classic — a wonderfully sensual, delightful, superbly composed love story.  Delicate, attuned, succulent, aromatic — one of the finest romantic dream-trip films ever — a movie about all-too-brief emotional connections, erotic bliss, love, obsession and inevitable loss.

Timothee Chalumet (l.), Armie Hammer (r.) in Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name — an instant classic and likely 2018 Best Picture contender.

Exquisitely done, perfectly acted (Armie Hammer, Timothee Chalumet, Michael Stuhlbarg) and delivered with just the right degree of subtlety — the masterful Guadagnino (A Bigger Splash, I Am Love) blended with a mixture of Bernardo Bertolucci, Luchino Visconti and Eric Rohmer within a laid-back, highly refined atmosphere that’s 85% Italian, 15% American.

This will almost surely turn out to be the best film of Sundance ‘17 — definitely the most vividly realized, open-hearted gay romantic film since Brokeback Mountain — except it’s not so much ‘gay’ as alive and rich and full of flavor  — a sun-dappled celebration of all things sensual, musical, architectural, natural, genital, etc.”

Craig Johnson’s Wilson (Fox Searchlight, sometime in March) is basically about a middle-aged, passive-aggressive malcontent (Woody Harrelson) who’s way too friendly, way too open, doesn’t edit himself, has no social skills. He smiles sweetly and blathers on about anything that comes into his head. Free and unrestricted commentary about this, that and the other thing, and without a point or a strategy of any kind! Except to convey that he’s a passive-aggressive malcontent.

Wilson is a sweet, kind-hearted guy who will never “fit in” to any semi-conventional social congregation because he really has no idea what the word “dignity” means. One of my definitions of that term is being able to sense when it’s cool to say something in mixed company and when it’s best to shut the fuck up. This instinct is not in Wilson’s tool kit. 

He also seems incapable of understanding a concept that I’ve always respected, which is that sometimes you shouldn’t say anything unless you can improve upon the silence. There’s a lot of joy and peace in silence, but lovable social calamities like Wilson will never, ever be able to get that. 

Which is one reason why I would carefully limit my time with a guy like Woody’s Wilson if life had managed to install him in my orbit in some capacity. I wouldn’t necessarily cross the street or bolt in the opposite direction if I saw him coming, and I would never say anything cruel to the guy, but I would politely avoid him whenever and however possible.  

This is basically why I didn’t much care for Johnson’s film, which is based on an original script by Daniel Clowes. I didn’t hate it, but I wasn’t the least bit disappointed when it ended.

I found Alexandre Moors‘ The Yellow Birds and Dee Rees‘ Mudbound to be more about endurance than absorption. They both made me feel trapped and conflicted as I sat there with my overcoat and scarf and cowboy hat scrunched under my seat, grappling with a downish realization that neither were cutting the mustard, much less ringing the bell.

I was obliged to stay, of course, because walking out (i.e., escaping) would be processed as ignoble and dilletantish by the Twitter dogs. And so I sat there in a state of numb submission, popping Tic Tacs and toughing it out, focusing on the fine performances by Mudbound‘s Carey Mulligan, Mary J. Blige and Jason Mitchell (at times almost good enough to redeem the film as a whole) and a pair of honorable turns by Yellow Birds‘ Jennifer Aniston and Toni Collette. 

You know the drill — following along but waiting for something (anything!) truly interesting to happen, and checking your watch at 15-minute intervals.

Alden Ehrenreich as a PTSD-afflicted Iraq War veteran in Alexandre Moors’ The Yellow Birds.

Carey Mulligan in Dee Rees’ Mudbound.

Mudbound, a ’40s period piece about racial relations amid cotton farmers toiling in the hardscrabble South, bears more than a few resemblances to Robert Benton‘s Places In the Heart (’84). Likewise The Yellow Birds, an Iraq War-era drama about a search for the cause of a young American soldier’s mysterious death along with concurrent parental grief, is strongly reminiscent of Paul Haggis‘s In The Valley of Elah (’07).

In both cases the older films are far, far superior — better stories, more skillfully written, more emotionally affecting.

Based on Hillary Jordan‘s 2008 novel, Mudbound (adapted by TV writer-producer Virgil Williams) is about the relations between the white McAllans, owners of a shithole cotton farm (no plumbing or electricity) in the muddy Mississippi delta, and their black tenant-farmer neighbors, the Jacksons, in the immediate aftermath of World War II.

After yesterday’s anti-Trump women’s march in Park City followed by uploading, breakfast and three hours of filing, I caught Alexandre Moors‘ The Yellow Birds (3 pm) and Dee Rees’ Mudbound (6:15 pm) but not Taylor Sheridan‘s Wind River.

I saw the first two because I’d been given tickets by the film’s reps (you need to find them outside the Eccles), but I blew off Wind River because I had no such assurances, and because I’d also came up empty when I requested a ticket from the Sundance Press Office. I could’ve hung around before last night’s 9:30 pm showing and tried to mooch a ticket, but that’s not how I roll. I draw the line at in-person pleading, which in my mind is synoymous with grovelling.

Neither Birds nor Mudbound turned out to be all that good. Mudbound has a humanist heart — it exudes compassion for its hardscrabble characters — and is easily the better of the two. But they’re both slogs. This is sometimes part of the Sundance experience — occasionally you have to sit there and suffer and wait for a film to be over, and then you have to stand there and nod respectfully as people go on and on about how great or moving it was. (I’ll tap out thoughts about both in the next piece.)

The consensus so far is that while Wind River includes Jeremy Renner‘s finest performance yet, it’s decidedly the least of Sheridan’s heartland trilogy, the other two being his scripts for Sicario and Hell or High Water, and so I’m also blowing off this morning’s 9 am Eccles screening. I’ll see it when I see it, the sun will come up tomorrow morning either way, and I won’t be guilt-tripped by guys saying “wait, you’re not seeing Sheridan’s film this morning?” I’m playing my cards the way I want to play them.

I need three or four hours to bang out some column material, and I have three big Eccles films later today — Craig Johnson‘s Wilson (which I’m actually dreading) at 3:15 pm, Luca Guadagnino‘s buzzed-about Call Me By Your Name at 6:15 pm and finally Maya Forbes and Wallace Wolodarksy‘s The Polka King at 9:45 pm.

In last night’s SNL sketch, Aziz Asari‘s offense was saying he was okay with La La Land but that it kinda drags in the middle. I conveyed a similar reaction when I saw it last September, but I added that the opening and ending numbers (especially the latter) more than overcame any qualms. I’ve since mentioned that if you catch it a second or better yet a third time, all of that “drags in the middle” stuff kind of melts away. Plus I’ve never heard of any La La Land fascists barking at ambivalent types. So all in all I didn’t find this the least bit funny.