A respectful anti-Spotlight narrative is already beginning to take hold among older, conservative-minded Academy members. It’s a very good film, they say, but not really the Academy’s cup of tea. A very traditional movie in a building-blocks sense — it’s certainly not audaciously designed, they say — and therefore more of a B-plus than an A. Just because journalists flipped for it in Telluride and Toronto doesn’t mean it’s one of “our” favorites so don’t try and push us around. We like what we like.

And you know what they do like? The Martian, of course (there’s no stopping that one), and Bridge of Spies, believe it or not. 

When an Academy friend told me last night that Bridge has played very well with Academy types, I went “ohhh, God!” He said, “Will you calm down, please? You have your opinion but other people are entitled to theirs, and I’m telling you that it’s a very well-liked film and if I had to predict I’d say it’s going to become a Best Picture nominee.” It’s an okay film, I said — not bad, acceptable, reasonably well done. But a Best Picture nominee? What, are they looking to kiss Spielberg’s ass for the 37th or 38th time because he’s worth over $3 billion? Obeisance before power.

In a passage from “Frank Capra: The Catastrophe of Success,” author Joseph McBride quotes Capra, a short-statured man, about the psychology of the little man, which is basically that short dudes know they’re at a disadvantage with women, and so they have to pull out the stops, perform like a champion and turn up the charm levels to 11 in order to get laid.

“Short men try to make themselves attractive to women by doing things,” Capra once told Mr. Deeds Goes To Town star Jean Arthur. In another conversation he said that “if Napoleon had been a handsome, six-foot lieutenant of cavalry on the island of Corsica, history would have been different. The girls would have been after him, and he would’ve stayed there.”

After reading this it occured to me that this is one reason why short actors always deliver in spades. They have that extra thing they need to prove and so they develop a passionate persistence or a steel-eyed feistiness or a combination of the two.

Think of all the short guys who have that extra wham-bam, who always bring it with emphasis: Al Pacino, George Raft, Jonah Hill, James Cagney, James Cagney, Ben Stiller, Joe Pesci, Alan Ladd, Bob Hoskins, Frank Sinatra, Danny DeVito, Jack Black, Mel Brooks, Emile Hirsch, Dustin Hoffman, Mickey Rooney, Martin Short, Jason Schwartzman, Humphrey Bogart, Woody Allen, Emilio Estevez, Richard Dreyfus, Jason Alexander, Daniel Radcliffe, Elijah Wood, Michael J. Fox, Dane DeHaan.

I saw Cary Fukunaga‘s Beasts of No Nation (Netflix, 10.16) again last night, and it’s still “a major, triple-A-approved, Apocalypse Now-influenced African inferno flick” of the first order, which is what I wrote after catching it at Telluride five or six weeks ago. Ben Affleck and Elizabeth Banks were among those who attended as a way of showing support. Their message: “This movie is not about a game of backyard tiddly winks but it’s devastating art…undeniably alive and probing and hallucinatory.” The conversation point at the Chateau Marmont after-party (hats off to the Netflix guys for offering tons of delicious food) was Affleck having re-imagined Fukunaga’s first name as “Cory.” It became a running joke when John Horn introduced the director-writer-cinematographer as “Cory” Fukunaga as the post-screening q & a began. Bottom line: Beasts is a masterwork — now watch Academy fuddy-duds (i.e., the ones who will be voting for Bridge of Spies and The Martian on their Best Picture ballots) do 100-yard sprints in the opposite direction.

Cary Fukunaga during last night’s post-screening q & at the DGA.

Banging out five or six stories daily requires following through on instincts. You have to throw caution to the wind, dive into the pool and see where it goes. Patti Smith would do this between songs during sets, starting with nothing more than a wisp of a thought and then building it into something cool or revelatory on some level. Well, the Patti Smith muse failed me yesterday when I decided to swan dive into Walton Goggins. I’ve never enjoyed the company of yokel characters in films or have always frowned upon yokel-sounding names, and I just went with a feeling. I was told I would be kicked around for doing so, and I was. I’ve read a version of The Hateful Eight and seen it performed on stage so I know what Goggins’ role is, but I’ve never watched him in The Shield or Justified. No matter how you slice it, ignorance is never something to broadcast. I sounded like Dumbshit McCrackledoodle, and for this I apologize.

If you’re looking to make a left turn at a stop-light intersection that doesn’t have a special left-turn lane and there are three or four cars with the same goal in mind, you know that only three cars will make the turn. Four cars never make it — three at the most and sometimes only two.

But the only way three can get through is for car #1 to drive into the middle of the intersection with its left-signal flashing, and also for car #2 to be right behind car #1 with its nose just ahead of the foot-traffic crosswalk, and car #3 right behind #2, usually behind the crosswalk.

When the light turns yellow and opposing traffic is coming to a halt is when everyone makes their move — cars #1 and #2 without breaking a sweat with car #3 barely making it through after the light has turned red.

But the whole system collapses if car #1 doesn’t nudge into the center of the intersection, and this is what today’s traffic rant is about — candy-asses who are afraid to move into the middle.

There are some who will only creep two or three or four feet beyond the white line as if they’re afraid of something bad will happen, and there are others who won’t move forward at all — who just stay in the left lane with their left signal blinking. Meep meep…will you move ahead, please? Are you aware that if you hang back like a coward you’ll be condemning the third guy to wait for another light change? Show a little consideration and get out there.

Crimson Peak (Universal, 10.16) is a madhouse, all right. Operatic, fevered — Guillermo del Toro‘s most carefully designed movie from a style and image perspective, and it is a style, make no mistake, that you either get into or you don’t. It’s a swan dive into the aortic valve. “Please don’t wear red tonight…for red is the color of the mush in the mud and the vats in the cellar, and what’s more it’s true…yes, it is.” Even the spinning Universal globe is blood red. O madness…consume me! Crunch my bones, devour my flesh, swallow me whole and then belch, loudly. Actually, no, wait…I need to dial this back.

Call it an uber-operatic exercise in a genre that’s been tuned two or three notches above reality and plays out just like that — sort of a crazy Jacobean drama. This is another ghost/Mama movie in a sense, a murder-and-crazy-maim movie, a greed movie, a gothic-production-design thing, a cold spirit-realm supreme, a red-gloop movie, a virus of evil movie, a blood-soaked nightmare, a delirious frenzy movie, a stab-stab-stab movie (as well as a stab-stab-stab-and-you’re-not-just-alive-but-able-to-walk-away movie).

It’s also a Notorious homage. Mia Wasikowska is a not-quite-as-desirable Ingrid Bergman, Charlie Hunnam is Cary Grant, Tom Hiddleston is Claude Rains and Jessica Chastain is Mama Sebastian.

I was think it should be called In The Mouth of Madness…too bad that title was taken by John Carpenter 21 years ago.

“A good movie doesn’t have to go wham-bam-kaboom and make audiences go ‘holy shit!…what just happened?’ to earn a seat at the Best Picture table, and this is one such occasion. There’s a time and a place for every kind of film, and thank God an effort like Brooklyn has come along — a fine little reminder of the pleasures of emotional simplicity served up in a low-key, no-bull fashion. Cutting-edge cognoscenti might be looking for something flashier or jizzier but people who know from quality will warm to Brooklyn‘s timelessness. A Best Picture nomination seem assured, as I noted last month.

“And there can be no doubt that Saoirse Ronan‘s performance as Eilis Lacey, a young Irish immigrant torn between two nice-guy suitors, is solemn and understated and quietly mesmerizing, and therefore a near-lock for a Best Actress nomination. Ditto John Crowley for Best Director and Nick Hornby for Best Adapted Screenplay. Yves Belanger‘s elegant cinematography also warrants a nom.

I’ve never derived the slightest pleasure from “rural”-looking actors playing lowlife redneck hicks, and so I’ve never been a fan of Walton Goggins. I realize he played Shane Vendrell on The Shield for eight years and then Boyd Crowder on Justified, and that he’s a respected actor as far as it goes. But he looks like a yokel with a nice suit — like the nephew of the guy who had his way with Ned Beatty in Deliverance. He played a submental yeehaw in Quentin Tarantino‘s Django Unchained, and now he’s playing another lowbrow, Chris Mannix, in Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight.

The “great” Walton Goggins.

The reason I’m on this jag is that a director friend told me this morning that Goggins “more or less owns the film.” My friend doesn’t know that, mind — he’s just “been told” this so take it with a grain. Here’s how our conversation went immediately following:

HE: “Walton who?”
Director friend: “You’re joking, right? If not, you sure as fuck will know him by year’s end.”
HE: “I’m not joking. I’ve never watched The Shield or Justified and I’m extremely proud that I had better things to do, and I couldn’t give less of a fuck who Goggins is. I can’t even remember him from Django — if you’ve seen one lowlife rural dumbass with a shotgun and a hillbilly hat, you’ve seen ’em all.”
Director friend: “You’re serious?”
HE: “On top of which that name sounds like the name of a fucking hayseed. Walton Goggins sounds like Jethro McGillicutty or Bumblefuck Podkins or Dumbshit McCrackledoodle.”
Director friend: “That may be true. But he is also one of the most respected actors in town. He’s an adored actor. I double and triple fucking dare you to put up a column piece dismissing him. Your loyal readers will prison rape you for it.”
HE: “He’s a good-looking guy but that rural face, those chewin’ tobacco eyes. He seems to be straight out of Deliverance.”
Director friend: “Like I said, put your doubts up on your site and see what happens. He is one of our great actors although he does often play hicks — true. I’m told he has many offers now in anticipation of The Hateful Eight.”

Everyone would be watching tonight’s Democratic debate if it was solely between Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders. But of course, it won’t be. It’ll be Hillary vs. Bernie vs. three superfluous candidates whom nobody wants to hear from or acknowledge — former Maryland governor Martin O’Malley, former Virginia Senator Jim Webb and former Rhode Island governor Lincoln Chafee. Go away, withdraw, get sick, nobody cares. Their presence ensures low ratings. On the other hand it’s a big opportunity for ballsy Bernie. To his immense credit he won’t bring up Eghazi. Sidenote: If Joe Biden were a man of real consequence he would either declare his candidacy or announce that he’s not running, period. If he’s running, fine…but enough of the indecision. And once again, if Biden were to run and announce that he’s committed to running with Elizabeth Warren as his vice-presidential running mate, the race would be totally transformed.

“I’m over trying to find the ‘adorable’ way to state my opinion and still be likable! Fuck that. I don’t think I’ve ever worked for a man in charge who spent time contemplating what angle he should use to have his voice heard. It’s just heard. Jeremy Renner, Christian Bale and Bradley Cooper all fought and succeeded in negotiating powerful deals for themselves. If anything, I’m sure they were commended for being fierce and tactical, while I was busy worrying about coming across as a brat and not getting my fair share.

“Again, this might have NOTHING to do with my vagina, but I wasn’t completely wrong when another leaked Sony email revealed a producer referring to a fellow lead actress” — Angelina Jolie — “in a negotiation as a ‘spoiled brat.’ For some reason, I just can’t picture someone saying that about a man.” — Jennifer Lawrence in a 10.13 Lenny piece “Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co‑Stars?”

To be even more fair, if you substitute “spoiled brat” for “entitled, coddled, living-in-a-luxury-bubble egotist” you’d be describing a fairly large percentage of all super-successful actors — i.e., those with managers and personal assistants and nannies who drive them around and pick up their laundry and whatnot. It’s a nice way to live but it’s only natural that the recipient of all this coddling and smoothing and honeyed caressing will eventually adopt an attitude of me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me, regardless of gender. All to say that the producer who described Jolie in the previously mentioned unflattering terms probably wasn’t, you know, imagining things.

Brian Wilson‘s ten-piece band made a lot of people happy tonight at Vibrato, the Beverly Glen jazz club. Journos, publicists and Academy members clapped, cheered, danced and whoo-hooed to a 40-minute set of Beach Boys hits. All were gathered to celebrate….okay, acknowledge the launch of Love & Mercy‘s award-season campaign. I was sitting at a center table with Indiewire‘s Bill Desowitz, Variety‘s Kris Tapley and producer Don Murphy. The high point came when Love & Mercy star Paul Dano walked on stage and joined the band for “You Still Believe In Me”…not an easy song to perform but he brought it home. What a night! (Note: The band sounded better than what these videos are conveying — the iPhone 6 Plus can only capture so much range.)