June 1973 — three months after the Sasheen Littlefeather debacle, four months after the opening of Last Tango in Paris, 16 months after the debut of The Godfather.

I’ve been searching around for a few reviews of John Madden‘s Killshot, which opened in five Arizona theatres last Friday (1.23). But all I can find is one by the Arizona Republic‘s Bill Goodykoontz. I was hoping to at least find a review by the Arizona Star‘s Phil Villarreal, but no dice.

Why can’t the Weinstein Co. at least hand out screeners of this film, for critics who ask to see them? Like me. Goodykoontz says it isn’t too bad, so why not? I’ll tell you why not. Killshot isn’t being distributed by the Weinstein Co. Not in Arizona, it isn’t.

An email sent to Arizona critics on 1.21.09 by Allied Advertising & Public Relations’ Jessica Sotelo (and forwarded to me) stated that “Killshot starring Diane Lane and Mickey Rourke is being distributed under the Third Rail Release and NOT The Weinstein Company. Please make any updates/corrections on this with your reviews/opening mentions.”

Before and after last night’s party for Kristin Scott Thomas, I spent some time strolling around the grounds of the Biltmore Santa Barbara. What an au natural, almost spookily soothing vibe I found. For the designers of this old-world, Spanish-styled establishment have decided to use an outdoor lighting scheme that is quite radical — a scheme that has just about disappeared from the nocturnal American landscape — disappeared from the areas outside nearly every hotel, McMansion, condo complex and shopping mall.

When the sun goes down and the moon comes up, the Biltmore Santa Barbara — are you sitting down? — not only accepts the absence of sunlight, but casts a beautiful spell by embracing it with only a very few amber-toned, ankle-high lights — more lanterns than lamps — punctuating the darkness. They don’t light the place up like a fucking medium-security state prison. They actually let the darkness alone.

Which invites the obvious question, “What is their problem?” Don’t these guys realize that the vast majority of American consumers demand that every last area in which a customer might sit or walk during the nighttime hours (including parking lots) has to be floodlit within an inch of its life? Scary life forms can lurk in dark corners, and therefore all darkness must be vanquished. The lighting aesthetic of a big-league baseball field during a night game must be observed from coast to coast. And if advocates of this all-floodlit, all-the-time aesthetic want to protect themselves, they need to marshall their forces in order to keep this nutbag Biltmore Santa Barbara aesthetic from catching on.

Am I right or am I right?

If the Photoshopper who sent this along gets in touch, I’ll run his name. Right now I can’t find the original e-mail.

Kristin Scott Thomas, whose immaculate performance in I’ve Loved You So Long won high praise worldwide, sat for a tribute last night at Santa Barbara’s Lobero theatre. Pete Hammond pitched the questions. On top of everything else in her backpack (brains, class, beauty, immense talent), KST is modest, self-effacing and very funny. She’s the best. The Academy folk who couldn’t be bothered to watch the ILYSL screener (and therefore didn’t nominate her for Best Actress) need to hang their heads in shame.

KSTSB2 from Hollywood Elsewhere on Vimeo

Her English Patient costar Ralph Fiennes turned up at the finale to present her with the festival’s Cinema Vanguard award.

A small party at the Biltmore Santa Barbara, a sublime old-world establishment, followed. I told KST that SBFF director Roger Durling and I had caught her in the Broadway production of The Seagull performance last November. She said she hasn’t yet seen An Education, the breakout dramedy featuring her Seagull costar Carey Mulligan . She said that plans are afoot to shoot a film version of The Seagull with the same Broadway cast.

I told her I’ve read Matt Greenhalgh‘s script for Nowhere Boy , the young John Lennon biopic in which she’ll play Aunt Mimi, and found it quite sharp and, as far as I could discern, grounded in the reality of ’50s Liverpool culture. We talked very briefly about P.J. Hogan‘s Confessions of a Shopaholic (Disney, 2.13), in which she plays a supporting part “very broadly,” she said.

“Are you the man who compared my [I’ve Loved You So Long] performance to the work of Steve McQueen?” she asked. Yes, I said, “and then you gave me a shout-out in People magazine for having said that.” Actors get hit on day and night — they can’t be expected to remember who wrote or said what.

Kristin Scott Thomas SB from Hollywood Elsewhere on Vimeo.

Tuesday, 1.27.09, 8:45 pm

Dimitri Tiomkin‘s score for the The Thing From Another World was probably his all-time best. I happened across this music-isolated clip a little while ago, and heard it in a way I never had before. Play it on a good bassy sound system with the volume cranked up to 8 or 9.

A brief but eloquent video essay on John Schlesinger‘s Midnight Cowboy (’68) by N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott.

“On a day when news of more than 75,000 layoffs came down in all sectors of the economy, it is silly to point to a single one that suggests Armageddon is nigh, but the Bagger can tell you seeing Anne Thompson‘s name on the cut-down list at Variety sent a shudder through the community. It’s the kind of layoff that signals that something in the middle is breaking, that something besides retrenchement is underway. You can’t roll someone like Ms. Thompson out of the back of the truck and pretend everything is hunky dory. It’s not.” — from a N.Y. Times David Carr/”Bagger” posting earlier today.

Cancer has taken the great John Updike, 76. My first Updike book was Couples (’68), which I read for the adulterous sex. It didn’t disappoint. Suburban adultery became Updike’s handle around that time. (“A subject which,” he once wrote, “if I have not exhausted, has exhausted me.”) I found the Rabbit books vaguely depressing. I read half of Beck: A Book and ignored the other two. Updike’s Witches of Eastwick was much more satisfying than the film. But Couples was the shit.

John Updike