While members of the Los Angeles Film Critics Association were chowing down yesterday afternoon, a fine political victory was being celebrated by the Standing Rock Sioux tribe and their supporters over the feds having halted construction of the controversial Dakota Access Pipeline. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers announced that it has denied final permission for the $3.8 billion project to cross under Lake Oahe in North Dakota, and that alternative routes are being explored pending an environmental impact study.

Unfortunate bottom line: The pipeline will be delayed for months and perhaps a year or so, but the real-life manifestation of a grotesque character played by Alec Baldwin on Saturday Night Live said last week that he supports finishing the 1,170-mile pipeline, which stretches from the Canadian border to Illinois and is nearly finished.

N.Y. Times reporters Jack Healy and Nicholas Fandos have noted that “the Trump administration could ultimately decide to allow the original, contested route…[Donald] Trump owns stock in the company building the pipeline, Energy Transfer Partners, but he has said that his support has nothing to do with his investment. Opposition to the oil pipeline had been linked to concerns about water contamination, environmental destruction and damage to ancestral sites.

So the mummy in The Mummy (Universal, 6.9.17) is a demonic phantom princess out of The Ring, fine, and the damaged crashing plane sequence looks stupidly cool, but I don’t get the dead-Tom Cruise-in-a-body-bag-suddenly-coming-back-to-life thing. Has he been infected or injected with mummy serum or something? All I can say is, Cruise and Russell Crowe sure are sleeping with dogs in order to stay in the financial bigtime. The blonde, by the way, is Annabelle Wallis, a 32 year-old British actress known for TV work (Showtime’s The Tudors, BBC’s Peaky Blinders).

I just paid $65 dollars — unwisely, foolishly — for a copy of Twilight Time’s Moby-Dick Bluray, which represents an eight-month-long restoration to recreate director John Huston and dp Oswald Morris‘s carefully desaturated color scheme. From Julie Kirgo’s essay “Restoring Moby-Dick’s “Wind-Blanched Color”: “Morris and Huston [sought] to replicate 19th century whaling prints. This look was processed only in the Technicolor prints and not in the film negative. The result worked as a brighter and desaturated look with a warm tone, almost like tinting of a silent film.” DVD Beaver‘s Gary Tooze says the visuals are “reasonable but not overwhelming on digital…[the film] can still look rough at times but there are some incredibly well-textured visuals as well. The look is wholly unique. The appearance was an intentional gambit by the filmmakers. It frequently looks like a gorgeously rich painting. I loved my viewing. This Bluray gives as a good presentation as you are likely to find.” The 1956 film is presented in its original 1.66:1 aspect ratio.

In that post-election assessment that happened two or three days ago at the Kennedy School’s Institute of Politics, Trump mouthpiece Kellyanne Conway arguably delivered the best line: “I think the biggest piece of fake news in the election was that Donald Trump couldn’t win.” But when CNN’s Jake Tapper asked Conway if Trump will continue spreading flat-out false information on Twitter and if she considers his conduct to be “Presidential,” Conway said that with Trump having won the Presidency, pretty much anything he says or does will be properly Presidential. Conway is astonishing.

6:02 pm:  Listening to post–screening cast discussion of Silence. Everyone knows LAFCA chose Moonlight, Barry Jenkins and Isabelle Huppert for Best Picture, Director and Actress.  Full respect, hats off, good work, no fishnets.

1:48 PM: Insisting on eccentricity, LAFCA members have named Paterson‘s Adam Driver as their Best Actor choice over the runner-up, Manchester By The Sea‘s Casey Affleck. LAFCA, trust me, is just looking to attract attention. Don’t misunderstand — Driver delivers a gentle, honestly spiritual vibe as a mild-mannered, bus-driver poet in Jim Jarmusch‘s much-admired film. There’s nothing slight about his accomplishment. But it’s nowhere near as shattering or dig-down or bi-layered as Affleck’s performance, not to mention Denzel Washington‘s Fences‘ performance as a bitter father. LAFCA is totally image-obsessed — these choices are all about promoting themselves, their brand, their contrarianism.

1:25 pm: There’s a report that a team of men in white coats carrying large fishnets are heading out to the private home where the Los Angeles Film Critics Association is currently assembled and voting.

1:16 pm: This is getting more and more laughable. LAFCA has awarded its Best Screenplay award to The Lobster, penned by Efthymis Filippou and Yorgos Lanthimos. HE to LAFCA: It wasn’t just my impression that The Lobster withers and dies around the 75-minute mark — a lot of Cannes viewers held the same view. Do you think the screenplay might have had something to do with this? Flip us off, LAFCA! Throw your heads back and shriek with laughter as you (a) revel in contrarianism while (b) giving the finger to the keepers of the reasonable flame (i.e., the Gold Derby/Gurus gang).

12:08 pm: Raoul Peck‘s I Am Not Your Negro, a intelligent recap of the life of the legendary James Baldwin, is a fine if somewhat rote-feeling documentary. But it can’t hold a candle to Ezra Edelman‘s O.J. Made In America. The LAFCA perversity continues unabated. And…it’s lunch time!

Pickles, potato chips, mozarrella, potato salad, roast beef and white wine — terrific. Get yourself a little buzz-on, guys.

11:54 am: Certain Women‘s Lily Gladstone, who has generated zero buzz among the Gold Derby and Gurus of Gold critics & blogaroos, has won LAFCA’s Best Supporting Actress award. C’mon! This settles it — LAFCA is on a total contrarian p.c. jag. They’re just being different to be different. Yes, I was aware that Gladstone was generating a persistent emotional undercurrent as she stared longingly and obsessively at her object of desire, Kristen Stewart. Yes, I felt all that. And yes, she does a good job taking care of the horses. LAFCA can discount Fences‘ Viola Davis over a conviction that she’s really playing a lead, but choosing Gladstone over Manchester‘s Michelle Williams is nothing short of perverse. This is just a nyah-nyah game to them, led by the Jen Yamato crowd, LAFCA is flipping us off. The word has gone out betweens bites of lox and bagels — if it’s a Manchester nom, it’s a no-go.

11:38 am: LAFCA’s Best Editing award goes to Ezra Edelman‘s O.J.: Made in America; runner-up tally earned by La La Land.

11:29 am: LAFCA’s Best Production Design winner is Ryu Seong-hee‘s work on The Handmaiden. It’s getting close to noon, guys. How many different kinds of cream cheese are being served, or are we just sticking to generic Philadelphia brand? Matt Neglia tweet: “LAFCA reeeeaaalllyyy likes La La Land, Moonlight & Silence.”

11:14 am: LAFCA, totally kowtowing to p.c. consensus, hands Best Supporting Actor award to Moonlight‘s Mahershala Ali, who gives a fine and memorable (if less than magnetic) performance. This is because he taught “Little” to swim in the ocean, right? Already things are feeling too Moonlight-y, too foo-foo. Silence‘s Issey (also spelled “Issei”) Ogata was voted first runner-up.

Earlier: Does LAFCA want to be brave and historic in its choice of Best Supporting Actor? Ralph Fiennes for A Bigger Splash. Manchester‘s Lucas Hedges, Fiennes’ only strong competition, would be my choice. The go-along pick would be Moonlight‘s Mahershala Ali, who projects a kindly vibe but has too little screen time (he’s gone after Act One).

10:53 am: Justin Hurwitz‘s La La Land score wins LAFCA’s Best Music award; Mica Levi‘s striking Jackie score is runner-up.

10:43 am update: LAFCA hands Best Cinematography award to Moonlight‘s James Laxton with La La Land and Silence as first and second runner-ups. This obviously indicates that Moonlight could take Best Picture. That or Barry Jenkins for Best Director. Or both. 10:40 am: Between LAFCA’s tortoise-like efficiency (took them 40 minutes to decide cinematography award) and the 30-minute brunch break, will they finish voting before I have to leave for the 3 pm Silence screening in Westwood?

Down to it: If LAFCA doesn’t give its Best Actress award to La La Land‘s Emma Stone (who gave far and away the most openly pained and affecting performance), the question will be “what non-industry group, if any, will give it up for her?” But honestly? If they give the prize to Elle‘s Isabelle Huppert, HE will approve. Within that Verhoevian realm, the red-haired mouse killed it.

Wait…Certain Women‘s Lily Gladstone as a dark horse contender for Best Supporting Actress? She (a) took care of the horses and (b) stared longingly and obsessively at Kristen Stewart without saying boo. She left a memorable impression, agreed, but let’s not get carried away.

The Los Angeles Film Critics Association (LAFCA) is the only prestigious film critic group that brazenly, even proudly interrupts its voting process halfway through so the members can chow down on bagels, scrambled eggs and whatnot. Other groups, mindful that people like myself are waiting with bated breath to report their winners, get down to business and do the job. If past procedure is any guide, LAFCA will cast a few votes this morning (starting around 10 am Pacific) until someone says “bagel and cappuccino time!” and the process stops in its tracks for 30 or 40 minutes. I know that guys like Daily News critic Bob Strauss derive great pleasure from goading blogaroos with this delay, but it’s a solemn duty, I feel, to hold LAFCA’s feet to the fire on this issue.

LAFCA members chowing down during 2015 voting — will someone please send me a photo or two of this year’s mid-vote food binge?

Late Saturday afternoon I attended a 90-minute American Cinematheque chat between director Martin Scorsese and producer Irwin Winkler, who teamed on New York, New York (’77), Raging Bull (’80), Goodfellas (’90), The Wolf of Wall Street (’13) and the soon-to-be-released Silence. The moderator was Jim Hemphill (knew his stuff, kept the ball in the air). Towards the end the trio was joined by Silence costars Andrew Garfield, Adam Driver and Issei Ogata (“Izzy” to his American friends) along with producer Emma Tillinger Koskoff. Silence screens for journos and industry types tomorrow afternoon (Sunday, 12.4) at 3 pm.

Jim Hemphill, producer Irwin Winkler, director Martin Scorsese — Saturday, 12.2, Hollywood’s Egyptian theatre,

In raw form, this morning’s Oscar Poker chat, during which Sasha Stone and I discussed the usual range of topics, ran over an hour. I have to attend a 4:30 pm Martin Scorsese-Irwin Winkler thing at the Egyptian so I haven’t time to listen to Sasha’s edit, but it was one of our better chats. Not just Oscar spitballing but “where is it all heading?” stuff. Here’s the raw version.

Yesterday Daily Beast contributor Lewis Beale reminded that a Donald Trump-like demagogue and presidential candidate was imagined by revered 20th Century novelist Sinclair Lewis in a 1935 novel called “It Can’t Happen Here.” Lewis’s cautionary tale about a hate-monger and resentment-exploiter named Berzelius Windrip, who mouths Trumpisms chapter and verse, recently became Amazon’s number one bestseller in the Classic American Literature category.

Beale’s opening paragraph: “It’s an election year, in a time of economic uncertainty. Running for president is a ranting populist type who has a bestselling book that is part biography, and part shameless boasting. He promises to ‘make America a proud, rich land again,’ rails against blacks, Jews, and Mexicans, and makes it a point of criticizing the press, whose editors he accuses of ‘plotting how they can put over their lies, and advance their own positions.'”

Up until the 1:41 mark this is one of the most affecting, perfectly assembled high-school relationship shorts I’ve seen in a long time. A terrible shock happens at the 1:38 or 1:39 mark, and it hangs in the air until 1:41. But at 1:42 until the finish it suddenly becomes a PSA spot about how school violence can be prevented. Which is obviously an important message, but before 1:41 the piece is operating on a more intriguing and sophisticated level.

Once a year I’ll say something nervy or cutting on Twitter in the wrong way, and for a few hours and sometimes for as long as a day or two the Twitter dogs decide that I’m a howling, salivating, razor-clawed Beelzebub — a voice and a mentality so monstrously evil that I need to be bitten and bloodied and ripped to pieces. That or someone who needs to immediately slit his throat or drown himself or jump off a ten-story building at 3 am so as to not hurt any passing pedestrians. Make no mistake: Twitter is an evil, stinking place — an outlet for the acidic, festering rage that is churning inside millions and is probably getting worse as we speak. I’m not going to dignify yesterday’s disgusting conflict by explaining my side of the matter in three or four paragraphs, but here’s a verbal explanation that I shared with Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone this morning during a podcast recording.

A 12.2 Elle article about a three-year-old confession by Last Tango in Paris director Bernardo Bertolucci ignited a firestorm yesterday. Written by Mattie Kahn and posted on 12.2, it contained Bertolucci’s admission that during filming he and Tango star Marlon Brando, 48, decided to cruelly surprise costar Maria Schneider, 19, with the famous anal rape scene — no preparation, here we go, wham.

The article was based on a 2013 televised interview with Bertolucci that was somehow ignored or overlooked before the Elle piece. A regretful Bertolucci said that he wanted Schneider to react “as a girl, not as an actress.” Schneider, who died of cancer in 2011, was naturally shocked, humiliated, appalled.

But right away an impression began to spread yesterday that Schneider might have been literally raped by Brando with Bertolucci egging him on. That’s not what happened, but once Twitter gets hold of a story or an event, the wildfire spreads.

Last night Jessica Chastain tweeted the following: “To all the people [who] love this film, you’re watching a 19 yr. old get raped by a 48 yr. old man. The director planned her attack. I feel sick.” This inspired Octavia Spencer to tweet the following this morning: “This is BEYOND disturbing. Rape!!!! So, in the director’s mind order for an actor to play a killer does he actually need to kill? Yikes!”

This morning Variety‘s Seth Kelley, summarizing the Elle piece, wrote that Bertolucci had confessed that he and Marlon Brando “conspired against actress Maria Schneider during a rape scene in which the actor used a stick of butter as lubricant.” That wording half-suggests that the rape scene might have been real. Which it wasn’t — it was total simulation. Obviously a cruel strategy on Brando and Berlolucci’s part, but the scene in question was still about pretending.