A few hours ago the BAFTA film awards reminded everyone (as if we needed reminding) that 1917 is going to win the Best Picture Oscar on 2.9.20. And that Sam Mendes will win for Best Director, and that Parasite will win the Best International Feature Oscar, and that the same four winners in the acting categories — Joaquin Phoenix, Renee Zellweger, Laura Dern and Brad Pitt — will win again at the Oscars. And that Parasite will win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar, and that Jojo Rabbit will win for Best Adapted Screenplay, or for changing Christine Leunens‘ somber-minded “Caging Skies” into a dry-snark comedy and thereby making guys like David Poland and Jeff Sneider split a gut. Greta Gerwig‘s “stand up against the male patriarchy” roadshow is over and that’s that. The fix is in, the winners have been decided, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

With the Iowa caucauses happening tomorrow night, the likelihood is that Pete Buttigieg will emerge as a third-place shower, just behind Bernie Sanders and Joe Biden. (And almost certainly ahead of Elizabeth Warren.) Buttigieg was looking like a winner in these two states during early to mid November. Then he became a political pinata, and all the attacks seemed to coalesce or reach some kind of critical mass by late November and early December, and his numbers began to drop.

Three days ago the Washington Post posted a 20-question multiple-choice reader quiz about the major political issues of the day. Once you’ve answered them, the Post shows you which Democratic candidates you agree with the most (or vice versa). I took the test yesterday (it takes five or six minutes) and guess who I agree with the most? Pete Buttigieg and Tom Steyer.

All things considered, Buttigieg is a good guy. Liberal, reasonable, sanely progressive, super-brilliant — a perfect temperamental and generational counterweight to The Beast. Plus he’s sensible and modest and offers respect for others. The improvement in the cultural character of this country would be close to glorious if this modest, midwestern Christian were to beat Trump, and given the fact that Pete is mature and practical and respectful of Bumblefucks and definitely not in league with the hated Khmer Rouge wokesters, he would certainly defeat Trump. Maybe not by the same margin that Biden would command, but he’d win.

But the uglies (the general progressive purist crowd, Bernie bruhs plus the pro-Bernie under-30s, progressive Black Twitter and Gay Twitter) have been attacking Pete so savagely over the last couple of months that he’s probably not going to make it. And African-American voters have been staunchly skeptical and/or flat-out against Buttigieg since forever.

As a single, solitary West Hollywood voice I was just want to take this opportunity say thanks to all of you, and to tell you from the bottom of my heart how much I loathe and despise all the Pete attackers for sticking us with Bernie vs. Biden. Neither of these geezers is the breath-of-fresh-air rockstar that the Democrats need. And yet here we are. Thanks, assholes!

Steyer doesn’t have a prayer of winning Iowa and New Hampshire, but it wasn’t so long ago that Buttigieg did. I haven’t felt this much hate for purist hard-case lefties since Zero Dark Thirty was campaigned against in the Best Picture race of 2012 and ’13.

Do yourselves a favor and see where you really, actually stand with the various Democratic candidates.

Obviously John Ford was a child and then a very young man before he became that crusty, sullen-looking fuck with the the thick glasses (often shaded) and proverbial pisshead glower, and always with the floppy hat and the pipe and a stiff drink nearby. But it’s very hard to believe that he once was, in fact, a young lad with some kind of hopeful or innocently excited attitude about life.

Of the hundreds of Ford photos I’ve scanned over the years, these are the only two in which he’s not wearing round-rimmed glasses with lenses as thick as a goldfish bowl, or regarding the world with a certain guarded suspicion or outright dislike — his lifelong trademark.

“Bring on the obstruction and the bullshit,” his craggy, weathered face always seemed to say. “For I am an Irishman, I am…I have rivers of worship and serenity and sentimentality running through me, and I will throw your ugly-ass attitudes and chickenshit meddling right back at you with interest so don’t even think of fucking with me.”

The photo on the right, taken in 1915 when Ford was 21, is the only one in which he allowed even a glimmer of a grin. Apart from his passion for filmmaking, the man lived in order to scowl. Plus he had a robust head of hair back then. He was Sean Penn in the early to mid ’80s.

But he loved his whiskey and tobacco. By the time Ford was making The Grapes of Wrath and How Green Was My Valley at age 46 and 47, he looked 60 if a day. He was 61 or 62 while shooting The Searchers, and looked like a spry 75 (if you want to be generous). Just before he passed in ’73 he seemed to be at least 90 or 95, pale and skeletal and — surprise! — scowling like a ghost.

(l.) Legendary director John Ford at age 4 or 5, sometime in 1898 or ’99; (r.) Ford at 21, a year after he moved to California in 1914.

 
My all-time favorite Ford film is The Horse Soldiers (’60). Yes, I like it more than The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Partly because people mostly shrugged when it first came out (a Civil War film with John Wayne and William Holden…meh), and yet it’s surely among his most re-watchable. It’s like nutritious candy — like a chocolate milkshake. I love it because it isn’t especially ambitious, and yet it’s full of feeling and pictorial beauty and historical authenticity, and razor-sharp observations about proud (bull-headed) military mindsets and what happens when they go up against the day-to-day world.

If I was an earnest and scholarly Ford biographer like Joseph McBride I would probably list Wagon Master or Seven Women or Cheyenne Autumn among my top Fordies, but I like what I like. My top ten, actually, are The Horse Soldiers, The Grapes of Wrath, Young Mr. Lincoln, Drums Along the Mohawk, My Darling Clementine, The Informer, They Were Expendable, The Last Hurrah, What Price Glory? and Sergeant Rutledge, in that order.

I think Ford overdid the Monument Valley thing. Why the hell was anyone living in an arid dusty environment without decent soil or rivers or grass for cattle to munch on? It was one of the stupidest conceits in Hollywood history, that anyone would or could live in the Monument Valley of the 19th Century. In terms of forehead-slapping stupidity, the Monument Valley thing is right up there with that huge wall on Skull Island in King Kong having been built with a huge gate — a gate that could have no other purpose than to allow a gargantuan ape to walk through it.

Chris Evans and Robert Redford wore their respective white heavy-knit sweaters fairly well, but I wouldn’t go within 50 yards of these godawful things. If I must wear a sweater, it has to be an Italian-made black cashmere crewneck, preferably worn with a white T-shirt underneath. And that’s it. Sidenote: Evans was 38 when he shot Knives Out; Redford was 36 while filming The Way We Were in ’72 and early ’73.

(l.) Chris Evans in 2019’s Knives Out; (r.) Robert Redford in 1973’s The Way We Were.

Last night the WGA Awards gave an Oscar boost to a pair of hotshot screenplays. Bong Joon Ho and Han Jin Won’s Parasite won for Best Original Screenplay and Taika Waititi’s Jojo Rabbit won for Best Adapted Screenplay. Both are Oscar-nominated in their respective categories, and will probably wind up winning on Sunday, 2.9. Maybe. Probably. Who knows? The next stop-the-presses award ceremony — the BAFTAs in London — happens tonight (Sunday, 2.2).

What’s the most commonly referenced “what were they thinking?” Hollywood marriage? The tempestuous five-and-a-half week union between Ernest Borgnine and Ethel Merman, right? Married in Beverly Hills on 6.27.64, separated on 8.7.64.

Merman’s career as a Broadway belter and occasional Hollywood musical costar had surged in the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s, but in ’64 (when Merman was 56 and Borgnine was 47) things had begun to wind down for her, and one of the differences she reportedly had with Borgnine was that he, star of ABC’s McHale’s Navy hit series, was better known than she was. Their time together “was mostly spent hurling profane insults at each other, and both would later admit that the marriage was a colossal mistake,” according to one account.

Borgnine and Merman’s matrimonial calamity had a great run in the public mind (55 and 1/2 years) but the reign is over. Because they’ve just had their asses handed to them by producer Jon Peters and actress and personality Pamela Anderson.

On or about 1.21 Peters and Anderson were quietly (and somewhat impulsively) married in Malibu, and 12 days later (2.1.20) they announced their separation. Or Anderson has, I should say.

This means at least one of them has a tempestuous personality, and is possibly a wackjob. Maybe both. I’m guessing it was Anderson who called it off, and probably over monetary issues. Sustaining a marriage is hard but these guys obviously didn’t even try. Breaking up is relatively easy if you’ve a mind to go there.

Anderson statement: “I have been moved by the warm reception to Jon and my union. We would be very grateful for your support as we take some time apart to re-evaluate what we want from life and from one another. Life is a journey and love is a process. With that universal truth in mind, we have mutually decided to put off the formalization of our marriage certificate and put our faith in the process. Thank you for respecting our privacy.”

Likely translation: “Spiritual communion is all well and good, but money and security are bottom-line concerns, and I thought…well, I’d rather not say anything more at this time.”

Apart from rousing receptions given to Taylor Swift and Hillary Clinton and apart from Hulu’s curious $17,500,999.69 cent purchase of Palm Springs, “the reception to [Sundance ’20] movies was much colder.

“As Sundance crawls into its closing days, a majority of the 100-something titles that screened in the snowy theaters of Park City are still actively seeking distribution.

“Many agreed that the narrative features that played were not as strong as they had been in other years, nor as powerful as they need to be to break through the hurdle of getting moviegoers to buy a theater ticket.” — From Brent Lang and Ramin Setoodeh‘s “Taylor and Hillary Were Rock Stars at Sundance, but What About the Movies?”:

In other words, the festival for the most part didn’t cut it, and most of the films shown over the last 10 days probably won’t charm Joe and Jane Popcorn when they start streaming or, in certain rare instances, playing theatrically.

Like I’ve said a few times, Sundance has more or less woked itself into a corner, and now it’s pretty much stuck with that brand or identity badge and can’t hope to free itself. The wokeness has been strident and persistent. The die is cast.

F9 (aka F9: The Fast Saga, Universal, 5.22) is the work of the devil, by which I mean one of the most shallow and aesthetically reprehensible hack directors on the face of the planet — Justin Lin.

You can smell the bullshit right away with a brief montage of Vin Diesel (Dominic Toretto) and Michelle Rodriguez (Letty Ortiz) living on a green, serene, tree-shaded country farm and showering their young son with gentle TLC. FORMULA WHORES!

And then along comes John Cena as Jokob Toretto, Dom‘s bad bruthaahh! And over they go, tumbling into space, falling and landing without hurting themselves.

If I was Diesel, Rodriguez, Cena, Ludacris, Jordana Brewster, Helen Mirren or Charlize Theron, would I appear in this thing for the sake of a stinking paycheck? I hate to say it but I probably would. Money is money, bills are bills, etc. That doesn’t change the fact that if Bob Dylan of 1964 could foresee the the Fast & Furious films, his response would be “can you find me a hole to get sick in?”

The best gig of my life has been writing Hollywood Elsewhere for the last 15 and 1/2 years. The second best was tapping out two columns per week for Mr. Showbiz, Reel.com and Kevin Smith‘s Movie Poop Shoot (’98 to ’04). General entertainment journalism for major publications (Entertainment Weekly, People, Los Angeles Times, N.Y. Times), which I did from ’78 to ’98 with a five year-break between ’85 and ’90, ranks third. But my fourth all-time favorite job was driving for Checker Cab in Boston. Seriously. The only non-writing gig I ever really liked.

Posted just under three years ago: The gig only lasted eight or nine months. I was canned for driving a regular customer off the meter up in Revere. But God, I felt so connected and throbbing and all the other cliches. Buzzing around one of the greatest cities in the world each night, learning something new every day, meals on the fly, incidents and accidents, hints and allegations.

At the end of every shift I was so revved that it always took a good hour to crash when I got home, which was usually around 1:30 or 2 am. And every night I had a new story to tell my girlfriend, Sherry McCoy, with whom I was sharing a nice little pad at 81 Park Drive.

Back then the Checker garage was on Lansdowne Street, or right next to Fenway Park. I remember to this day my Motorola two-way radio with the cord-attached mike. One of the dispatchers was called Tiny (a tall, white-haired fat guy); there was another older gent with a kindly face and gentle voice. After I had gained a little seniority I was given a slick new Checker cab (#50), which I always kept whistle-clean. At the end of every shift I had a new story to tell.

Story #1: A youngish woman who got into the back seat near Boston Garden found a full wallet with no ID or anything — $400 and change, which was a fortune back then. We split the dough 50-50 — luckiest score of my young life.

Story #2: An attractive, slender, frosty-haired woman in her mid to late 40s started chatting about this and that, and before you knew it were were flirting and talking about erotic chemistry and whatnot. As I was dropping her off she opened the cash slot and we gently kissed goodbye. We never got out of the cab, never shook hands — all in the eyes. I saw her on Newbury Street three or four months later…”Yo!”

I’ve no idea how much jail time, if any, Harvey Weinstein will wind up serving for the multiple alleged instances of rape and sexual assault he’s currently being prosecuted for. But after yesterday’s grotesque anatomical testimony by alleged sexual assault victim Jessica Mann, Weinstein has certainly gotten a taste of the sexual humiliation that he’s been accused of handing out during his heyday.

Mann, who alleges that Weinstein raped and sexually assaulted her on multiple occasions in 2013, claimed that the first time she saw Harvey buck naked she thought he was (a) “deformed and intersex,” (b) didn’t appear to have testicles, and (c) seemed to have a vagina. She added that he “smelled like shit” and “had a lot of blackheads” on his back. Her description, put bluntly, is that of a deformed and repugnant Uriah Heep.

Mann’s testimony suggests that Harvey may have had an undescended testicle or two, or a condition that resembles what Adolf Hitler reportedly suffered from. I know something about this as I had to have surgery when I was 10 years old to correct a one-ball condition. Without this I wouldn’t be able to have children, my parents were told.

In “Hitler’s Last Day: Minute by Minute”, historians Jonathan Mayo and Emma Craigie wrote that “Hitler [was] believed to have had two forms of genital abnormality: an undescended testicle and a rare condition called penile hypospadias in which the urethra opens on the under side of the penis.”

Life and biology are unfair and some of us are dealt bad cards. The sad fact is that there are hundreds of thousands of people on this planet, perhaps millions, who are regarded as ugly. I myself have never used that word — a decision that came from watching Charles Laughton‘s performance in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (’39) when I was eight or nine.

But most or many people do use it. They regard certain people, fearfully, as deformed or abnormal or otherwise grotesque. Cruel or unfair as this sounds, these unfortunate people arguably have an obligation to prevent others from contemplating or, God forbid, being physically intimate with their biological misfortune. It follows that they should never even think about attempting sexual congress with other people. Better that way.

Think of all the anguish and bruisings that could have been avoided if Harvey had decided that he had no choice but to be sexually inactive in a normal social sense. Without a sex drive he’d probably still be a swaggering film industry hotshot of some kind. All he had to do was accept his biological fate and conclude that onanism, prostitutes and love dolls were his only allowable outlets.

But no — he had to have his way with actresses. And thereby ruined not only his own life but left many of his alleged victims permanently bruised and/or traumatized.

Two strategic words for Democrats: Play dirtier.