Yesterday (12.5) a Huffpost piece by Jennifer Brucceller, titled “Bernardo Bertolucci Misses The Mark In Response To Last Tango In Paris Rape Scene Controversy” and subtitled “He doesn’t seem to understand why people are outraged,” earned special attention. Or a certain passage did, I should say:

“Regardless of whether or not [Maria] Schneider knew of the violence, it should be noted that any addition to the scene, such as the butter, which was not previously agreed upon by Schneider, can be considered assault. Bertolucci doesn’t seem to understand that.”

What?

Bruceller’s use of the phrase “such as the butter” suggests a problem with the substance. Let’s suppose Bertolucci and Marlon Brando had decided that butter wouldn’t work as the lubricant of choice, and that it would be better to go with Johnson’s Baby Oil. Or with Crisco shortening, Mazola corn oil or mayonnaise. I don’t even know what I’m talking about, and that’s partly Bruceller’s fault.

But let’s cut her a break. What Bruceller meant, I think, was that failing to tell Schneider about the butter in advance was the essence of what she called an assault. But does a refusal to confer and consult really live up to the definition of that term?

It seems to me that the term “assault” or “assaultive” should mean something that’s actually related to an assault as opposed to not showing respect by fully conferring in advance. That, to me, was Brando and Bertolucci’s uncool, uncaring act — declining to offer Schneider a chance to collaborate, mull it over, prepare, offer suggestions, etc.

If Joe Biden had somehow become the 2016 Democratic candidate for president instead of Hillary Clinton, he almost certainly would have won. Because he’s more recognizably warm and human than Donald Trump, and the Bumblefucks who went for Trump would have said “Biden talks plain and straight and has a heart…let’s give him a shot.” But Biden is 74 now, and I don’t think people will be hugely comfortable with a 78 year-old becoming the nation’s Commander-in-chief. The cut-off is 75, or Bernie Sanders‘ age. But if Biden runs anyway, he has to take care of that awful turkey wattle. Which is nothing these days. Neck wattle surgery is less arduous than having an appendectomy, akin to having a wisdom tooth removed. Biden had hair-plug surgery back in the ’80s so he knows all about this stuff.

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Manchester By The Sea costar Casey Affleck, director-writer Kenneth Lonergan during filming.

I called it 11 months ago at the 2016 Sundance Film Festival, and I don’t think I’ve put it any better since:

“Some Sundance movies are applauded and whoo-whooed, and others just sink in and melt you down. They get you in such a vulnerable place that your admiration is mixed with a kind of stunned feeling, like you’ve been hit square in the heart. Kenneth Lonergan‘s Manchester-By-The-Sea is one of the latter. It’s not an upper or a midtempo thing, but in no way is it a downer. It pushes the sad button more gently and effectively than anything I’ve seen in at least a couple of decades, and if you’ve got any buried hurt it’ll kill you.

“This is 2016’s first slam-dunk Best Picture contender, and it will definitely result, trust me, in Casey Affleck landing his first Best Actor nomination.”

But I failed to mention one important thing, and that’s the curious fact that Manchester is one of the funniest sad films I’ve ever seen. Filmmakers who’ve attempted funny-sad in the past have mostly used the age-old comic relief strategy. That’s not Lonergan’s game. He’s woven humor into sadness and vice versa like threads in a rope, and not hah-hah humor but the kind that’s laced with irritation or frustration — sardonic, testy, smartassy. Working-class New England humor. Some funny shit.

Never forget that humor is never about mirth, and always about the revealing of hurt or shame or rage. Manchester jokes never reach for outright hilarity (a grotesque concept considering the backstory of Casey Affleck‘s lead character, Lee Chandler) but they always land. Manchester might be the only film to operate on this level. There have probably been other films that have pulled off funny-sad in precisely the same way, but I can’t think of any.

A few observations along these lines:

(1) “Lonergan sidesteps sentimentality simply by treating characters with respect, as human beings with many dimensions, some of them contradictory. [The result is that] deep tragedy is shot through with some truly excellent comedic writing.” — Vox‘s Alicia Wilkinson;

(2) “Given the tragedy at the film’s heart, some will find the humor jarring. But great and constant sorrow can absolutely co-exist with belly laughs –— Lonergan knows it’s how we stay human. And humane.” — Joe Gross, Austin’s American Statesman.

Six and a half years ago I explained how Barry Lyndon is saddled with an unfortunate dead zone problem in its second half. A dispiriting chilliness. I happened to watch this portion of the 2011 Warner Home Video Bluray last night, and I was reminded how spot-on my 4.22.10 essay was. I’ve re-posted a portion of it:

“I’ve seen Barry Lyndon at least fifteen times. Possibly a bit more than that — I’ve lost count and who cares? It’s brilliant, mesmerizing, exquisite — a dry, note-perfect immersion into the climate and mores of William Makepeace Thackeray‘s novel, and, by its own terms, one of the most perfectly realized films ever made. But the problem — and this needs to be said (or re-said) with all the passionate but vaguely snobby Lyndon gushing going on these days — is that it turns sour at a very particular point.

“In my eyes, Barry Lyndon is just a notch below great because of this dead zone section in the second half.

“It begins at the moment when Barry (Ryan O’Neal) blows pipe smoke into the face of his wife, Lady Lyndon (Marisa Berenson). Something happens at that instant, and from then on it’s ‘oh, odd…the energy is dropping, and I’m starting to enjoy this less.’ For another 30 to 40 minutes (or what feels like that amount of time), Barry Lyndon gets slower and slower, draggier and draggier, more and more morose — stately compositions, dispassionate observation, grim-faced tableaus.

I would like to stream all ten episodes of Paolo Sorrentino‘s The Young Pope right now. This weekend, I mean. Total binge-out. And you know it won’t diddle around like Westworld — it’ll have tension, an arc and an ending. Sister Mary (Diane Keaton): “Everyone is afraid of you.” Lenny, aka Pope Pius XIII (Jude Law): “That’s not exactly true (beat) but it will be.”

While 35% of my time at any Sundance Film Festival is split between screens at the Library, the Holiday Village, the Egyptian, the Doubletree (formerly the Yarrow) and the Prospector Lodge, 65% is spent watching the premieres at the Eccles. So with today’s official announcement of the 2017 Sundance premieres, two-thirds of my Sundance agenda has now been determined. Here are my Eccles favorites:

Beatriz at Dinner (Director: Miguel Arteta, Screenwriter: Mike White) — Beatriz, an immigrant from a poor town in Mexico, has drawn on her innate kindness to build a career as a health practitioner. Doug Strutt is a cutthroat, self-satisfied billionaire. When these two opposites meet at a dinner party, their worlds collide and neither will ever be the same. Cast: Salma Hayek, John Lithgow. Wait…Hayek as a poor immigrant?

Call Me by Your Name (Italy-France / Director: Luca Guadagnino, Screenwriters: James Ivory, Luca Guadagnino) — The sensitive and cultivated Elio, only child of the American-Italian-French Perlman family, is facing another lazy summer at his parents’ villa in the beautiful and languid Italian countryside when Oliver, an academic who has come to help with Elio’s father’s research, arrives. Cast: Armie Hammer, Timothee Chalamet, Michael Stuhlbarg, Amira Casar, Esther Garrel, Victoire Du Bois.

The Discovery (Director: Charlie McDowell, Screenwriters: Charlie McDowell, Justin Lader) — In a world where the afterlife has just been scientifically proven, resulting in millions of people taking their own lives to get there, comes this love story. Cast: Jason Segel, Rooney Mara, Robert Redford, Jesse Plemons, Riley Keough, Ron Canada.

Fun Mom Dinner (Director: Alethea Jones, Screenwriter: Julie Rudd) — Four women, whose kids attend the same preschool class, get together for a “fun mom dinner.” When the night takes an unexpected turn, these unlikely new friends realize they have more in common than just marriage and motherhood. Together, they reclaim a piece of the women they used to be. Cast: Katie Aselton, Toni Collette, Bridget Everett, Molly Shannon, Adam Scott, Adam Levine.

The award selections of the Los Angeles Film Critics Association prompted some forehead-slapping yesterday, but one thing they got right was almost giving their Best Supporting Actor trophy to Silence‘s Issey Ogata. I saw Silence with everyone else yesterday afternoon at Westwood’s Village theatre, and I can tell you that Ogata’s performance was the one everyone was buzzing about — more so (and I mean no disrespect in saying this) than the perfs by Andrew Garfield, Adam Driver or Liam Neeson. Ogata has that natural snap and pizazz, and I’m telling you that he has to emerge as one the five Best Supporting Actor Oscar contenders — he really does. If Academy members blow him off, their reputation will take a hit. Silence reviews are embargoed until Saturday, 12.10 at 8 am.

Renowned Japanese actor Issey Ogata, who steals Silence and runs away with it.

A couple of hours ago The Hollywood Reporter‘s Gregg Kilday broke the news that Jimmy Kimmel will host the 2017 Oscar telecast. Last year the hiring of Chris Rock to host the 2016 Oscars was announced on 10.21.15, or roughly six weeks earlier than today’s report. It took eons for the Academy to finally hire Michael De Luca and Jennifer Todd to produce the show (that announcement broke on 11.4), but now Deluca and Todd have pulled the trigger on Kimmel only a month later. The Oscar show will air on Sunday, 2.26, or nearly 11 weeks hence.

Last Tango in Paris director Bernardo Bertolucci has issued a statement about the anger that ignited after an Elle article summarized comments Bertolucci made during a 2013 interview about he and Tango star Marlon Brando having surprised the late Maria Schneider, who costarred in the film, with an idea to do a butter-enabled anal sex scene.

The hoo-hah is based on a “ridiculous misunderstanding” of what actually happened, Bertolucci says.

“I would like, for the last time, to clear up a ridiculous misunderstanding that continues to generate press reports about Last Tango in Paris around the world,” Bertolucci wrote. “[Three] years ago at the Cinematheque Francaise someone asked me for details on the famous butter scene. I specified, but perhaps I was not clear, that I decided with Marlon Brando not to inform Maria that we would [use] butter. We wanted her spontaneous reaction to that improper use [of the butter]. That is where the misunderstanding lies.

“Somebody thought, and thinks, that Maria had not been informed about the violence on her. That is false!”

For one brief moment yesterday, Lily Gladstone‘s performance as a lovestruck ranch hand in Kelly Reichardt‘s Certain Women became a thing. Okay, it’s still a thing today. Perhaps her pop-through will gather a certain esteem between now and the announcement of Oscar nominations in January. Gladstone’s performance certainly registers in a demure, low-key way, and it’s at least conceivable that Academy and guild members will take notice and vote for her. If, that is, they can get through Reichardt’s film, which has struck some (myself included) as a “watching paint dry” experience.

I didn’t need reminding but I’ll bet a lot of people had never given Gladstone’s turn a second thought until the Los Angeles Film Critics Association gave her their Best Supporting Actress award — a decision that seemed questionable if not eccentric given that it necessitated a blow-off of Michelle Williams‘ world-class emoting in Manchester By The Sea.

I certainly realized that Gladstone was a big stand-out element after watching Reichardt’s film at last January’s Sundance Film Festival. But her performance is more or less a one-note thing, expressive but largely non-verbal — “I’m a Belfry-residing stable hand who’s sad and isolated but deeply intoxicated with the idea of having Kristen Stewart as my lover, and I can’t wait for her next biweekly law class so I can sit there and ignore her teaching so I can just sink into her beauty.”

Gladstone freaks when Stewart’s character decides to stop commuting from Livingston to teach the Belfry class, and so she drives all the way to Livingston herself to tell Stewart that she’s got it bad for her — a confession that Stewart obviously doesn’t want to hear, much less deal with.

Like many others, I’ve gone totally negative on Westworld over the last three or four episodes. The HBO miniseries finally ended last night, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a major revolt going on. I hate this series with a passion for just layering on the layers, for plotzing, diddly-fucking, detouring, belly-stabbing, meandering and puzzleboxing to its heart’s content.

You know Westworld is just going to be keep being Westworld for God knows how many damn seasons until the beleagured audience, like the hosts, stands up and says “Enough, Jonathan Nolan…you and your never-ending longform sprawl, your endless teasings and knife-stabbings and shallow sex scenes, your slowly-germinating metaphysical character arcs and parallel timelines…you’re just spreading your winding narrative double-back bullshit to see how long you can keep it going…two, three, four seasons. If it weren’t for the nudity we probably would have revolted four or five episodes ago.”

If the show itself isn’t reason enough, people need to say “no” to Westworld in order to reject the mindless opportunistic stoogery of Warner Bros. Entertainment CEO Kevin Tsujihara. “I am really, really excited about the opportunity that we potentially have with Westworld,” Tsujihara said last Tuesday at the Credit Suisse Technology, Media & Telecom Conference in Phoenix. “If you look at the viewer data on Westworld, its first year viewing on all platforms is greater than Game of Thrones.”

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.