The headline refers to Glenn Kenny’s reaction to James Ponsoldt‘s End of the Tour, and particularly Jason Segel‘s hulking-behemoth performance as the late David Foster Wallace. Just when Kenny thought he was out, they pull him back in.

The new Big Short trailer is trying to sell a revenge-caper plot that doesn’t exist. Early on the husky-voiced narrator says the following: “When the banks committed the greatest fraud in U.S. history, four outsiders risked it all to take them down.” Nobody, trust me, is looking to take anyone down in The Big Short. It’s about a few guys (including Ryan Gosling, Steve Carell and Brad Pitt‘s characters) shorting the residential mortgage market in order to profit off the stupidity of the big banks. Ladies, it’s okay with me if Paramount marketing wants to misrepresent the film. The Big Short is a delicious financial procedural, but people who go expecting a little Ocean’s 11 action are going to feel a wee bit underwhelmed. Again, the mp3.

The Krampus legend, which originated in Austria in the 1800s, is about “a horned, anthropomorphic figure [who] punishes children during the Christmas season who have misbehaved.” But in Michael Dougherty‘s darkly comic film (Universal, 12.4), Krampus is looking to punish the whole family for being selfish, distracted, self-absorbed shits who couldn’t care less about the Christmas spirit, etc. In short, Krampus is at least theoretically a metaphor for rightwing Christians who despise non-believers and insist that Starbucks’ red cups without snowfakes or reindeer or any of the other bullshit decorations are an affront to the legend of Jesus. Will Krampus be half-funny? Will it be better than just another rank holiday movie looking to cash in? From screening invite: “Please note the review embargo is Thursday, December 3rd, 2015 at 4 pm Pacific.” If Universal had said it’s fine to post reviews at 10 am the day before it opens, that would obviously indicate a high level of confidence. But 4 pm is worrisome.

This poster was recently snap-captured by a relation of Sasha Stone‘s in a Los Cabos plex. In the ’80s or before the poster would read Silencio but everybody reads English now & nobody cares. Is the “do not be afraid” slogan aimed at moviegoers who might be concerned about sitting through another Kundun-like, Scorsese-goes-to-Asia-to-sink-into-the-spiritual film? Except this time the focus is on damp, bearded men of faith in 17th Century Japan who wind up getting, like, tortured. And why would a poster say “coming soon” with the first possible peek-out being next May’s Cannes Film Festival, at best?

Invitations went out this morning for NY and LA press screenings of Quentin Tarantino‘s The Hateful Eight. Reviews are embargoed until 12.21. All screenings will present the slightly longer Ultra Panavision 70 version, which will run 175 minutes with a 12-minute intermission for a grand total of 187 minutes. I’ll be expecting, of course, an overture and an entr’acte musical passage between the two parts.

If you’re one of those impassioned, laser-focused, well-dressed media types you’ll almost certainly be driving towards the Academy’s Samuel Goldwyn theatre tonight around 7 pm or so. Because the show starts at 8 pm and you’ll want a good seat. “Something familiar, something peculiar, something for everyone…The Revenant tonight! Something appealing, something appalling, something for everyone…The Revenant tonight! Old situations, new complications,nothing portentous or polite…The Revenant tonight!” — from Stephen Sondheim‘s “The Revenant Tonight” from A Funny Thing Happened on The Way to the Forum.

Looking forward to re-watching every one of these on the 60-inch Samsung with the sound as full and crisp as I choose. Especially 45 Years (I’m fairly certain Charlotte Rampling is going to score with critics groups as a Best Actress recipient) and Son of Saul.

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It’s a plain, straight fact that Cary Fukunaga‘s Beasts of No Nation is a piece of devastating, world-class art — undeniably alive and probing and humanistic, a film about conscience and savagery and moral choice. It goes without saying that such a film requires award-season acclaim, and that denying it this will be some kind of perverse. But from the moment Beasts opened simultaneously on Netflix and in a relative handful of upmarket theatres on 10.16, three things have become apparent, and it almost takes a degree in marketing to figure out the whole equation.

One, a consensus has developed among film Catholics that despite its difficult subject matter (i.e., African child soldiers conscripted and goaded into committing atrocities during a civil war) Beasts is nothing short of a jolting, half-hallucinatory masterpiece — a 21st Century Apocalypse Now by a director with a momentous career ahead of him. It’s one of the few noteworthy films of 2015 to be spoken of in genuinely worshipful terms. For a few weeks now people like Jake Gyllenhaal, Ben Affleck and Sally Field have been hosting screenings and more or less dropping to their knees. Robert Downey, Jr. is also a fan. Many people are.

Two, some exhibitors (i.e., AMC Cinemas, Carmike Cinemas, Cinemark, Regal) have turned their backs over the day-and-date thing, and some Academy members have said in recent party-chat conversations that Beasts needs to be disciplined (i.e., not voted for) for the same reason, despite the fact that the quality of it demands attention at the very least, and the fact that Netflix is simply perched at the forefront of emerging release patterns.

And three, as was the case with Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave, winner of the 2013 Best Picture Oscar, some people just won’t see it. Some women, I’ve heard, just don’t want to watch a young boy (i.e., Abraham Attah‘s Agu) commit horrendous acts and in so doing lose his humanity. (Then again if they saw Beasts they’d know that Agu not only escapes his wartime servitude near the end but confesses his sins in a plea for redemption.) But all serious film lovers understand that when a film is said to be really and truly exceptional, you have to put aside your concerns and just submit. You have to let it in.

Maureen Dowd‘s 11.20 N.Y. Times Magazine piece about Hollywood boy’s-club sexism, which I finally got around to reading on today’s Miami-to-Los Angeles flight, is well written, heavily researched (Dowd interviewed and wrote for nearly six months) and very persuasive. It airs basic truths for the most part. As you might expect the piece re-emphasizes and summarizes the basic complaint about old-school dick attitudes making things difficult (in varying degrees) for women in the film and TV industry. Which of course is true. Ask any fair-minded woman who works in any professional capacity in this town…please.

Dowd has spoken to over 30 female directors, producers and execs, and the gist, boiled down, is that women directors are (a) put through tough hoops and get treated a certain way, (b) can be thrown into movie jail for a single failure whereas male directors always seem to have a couple of “get out of jail” cards in their back pocket, (c) are regarded as not being as well suited to playing the role of the proverbial take-charge generalissimo on a movie set as guy directors seem to be, (d) are suspiciously regarded as theoretically or potentially indecisive or ditzy, (e) are indifferent or hostile to conventional male-gaze fantasies, and (f) aren’t nearly as favored as young baseball-cap-wearing directors like Colin Trevorrow (Jurassic World, Star Wars: Episode 9).

The best Dowd quote is from an interview she did two days ago (11.20) on CBS This Morning, to wit: “The amazing thing is, I’ve covered Saudi Arabia and I’ve covered the Catholic church, and in both cases these societies got warped. They got sick because they’re not using the brains…of women. And who knew that the same thing could happen in the most liberal town on earth?”

I could throw out minor nitpicks here and there, but there’s one blatantly false claim made about Elaine May‘s experience directing Ishtar that Dowd, I feel, should have at least qualified if not challenged. The quote comes from director Leslye Headland (Sleeping With Other People, Bachelorette), to wit: “‘These dudes, man. Spielberg and Cassavetes and Woody Allen have all made some unwatchable movies. But it’s Elaine May and Ishtar you remember. It’s not Elaine May’s fault. Poor Elaine.’”

American #287 (Miami to Los Angeles) is finally preparing to leave after a 45-minute delay caused by a rain puddle.   (That’s what they said.). And I can’t tap out two or three stories during the five-hour flight because the plane — a nice, newish-feeling 767 — has no onboard wifi. Thanks very much, American! Landing around 5:30 pm Pacific.  Update:  It’s 5:55 pm. Arrived LAX around 15 minutes ago.  Torture.  Okay, not really as I spent most of the flight submerged in that “great public bath, that vat, that spa, that regional physiotherapy tank, that White Sulphur Springs, that Marienbad, that Ganges, that River Jordan for a million souls” that is the Sunday New York Times. (Passage stolen from the opening of Tom Wolfe‘s “The Painted Word.”)

“…won’t be back for many a day…my heart is down, my head is turnin’ round, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town.” It’s raining cats and dogs in Miami now, and somehow this simple, refreshing meteorological event has caused a delay in the departure of my American flight back to Los Angeles. I hadn’t been to the Miami area since the late ’80s before my just-concluded visit to the Key West Film Festival. I’d forgotten how warm and moist and soothing the tropical air can feel, and how transporting some of the aromas are. I’m essentially saying that nature has a stronger presence down here.   I’m thinking I need to visit Cuba sometime soon. Perhaps the rapidly-approaching Havana Film Festival (12.3 to 12.15)?   Three days ago I met a documentarian who said he’s been to Cuba a few times and knows several people in the Havana film community…maybe.

A beach party was held under the palm trees prior to last night’s Key West Film Festival awards ceremony.

People need to treasure each and every time they get to walk on a tarmac before or after a flight. Because it’s one of those alive-on-the-planet experiences that rarely happen these days.

I just had one of the most relaxing naps of the whole Key West trip on the floor at Miami International Airport, next to gate D44. I prepared my bedding (black leather computer bag, canvas KWFF bag), laid down and caught a full hour’s worth of zees, and felt pretty great after waking. Sometimes the simplest things can turn your day around.

With a final day (i.e., today) remaining in its schedule, the fourth annual Key West Film Festival handed out awards last night to filmmakers and name-brand auteurs at the Casa Marina, the Waldorf Astoria hotel on the beach. Producer-director and former Miamian Brett Ratner, benefactor of the festival’s Florida Film Student Showcase, took a bow and handed out four or five trophies. (At a pre-event beach party Ratner sidestepped questions about Warren Beatty‘s Howard Hughes film, which he’s a producer of, except to say it would be out in 2016.) Honoree and current Washington Post exec editor Marty Baron, the quiet-spoken leader of the Boston Globe‘s predator-priest investigation who is well portrayed by Liev Schreiber in Spotlight, spoke about the value of vigilant shoe-leather journalism. Directors Paul Verhoeven and Amy Berg (whose Janis: Little Girl Blue played at the festival) took bows, as did festival founder & chairman Brooke Christian and KWFF director of programming Michael Tuckman. Hollywood Elsewhere once again thanks KWFF for a rich and nourishing visit, and looks forward to returning. This is a classy, very well-run festival run by good people who “get it.” (Apologies for the substandard photos — I should have left my seat and gotten closer.)

Janis: Little Girl Blue director Amy Berg onstage during last night’s KWFF award ceremony.

Producer-director Brett Ratner, benefactor of the festival’s Florida Film Student Showcase.