The mark of a truly worthy and/or profound film is not about technical audacity or atmospheric authenticity (The Irishman‘s de-aging CG, the magical Birdman-like editing of 1917, Once Upon A Time‘s impressive period dressings), but how profoundly it connects.

In other words, what counts is whether the message or impression that it’s conveying “lands”, and how that makes you feel. It’s also about adding some kind of fresh-seeming insight to the subject and/or discussion at hand.

Which of the following Best Picture contenders sinks in the deepest? There’s only one answer.

1917 basically reminds that war is carnage and slaughter, but that compassion between solders endures regardless — something that The Big Parade, All Quiet on the Western Front and Paths of Glory said in their own eras and in their own ways.

Once Upon A Time in Hollywood essentially says that (a) in the late ’60s second-tier Hollywood types were the lifeblood of this town, (b) Zen-cool guys like Cliff Booth may be lacking in political skills but they sure are good to have around when the maniacs come calling, and (c) wouldn’t it be nice to spare a real-life beautiful actress in her late 20s from a horrible death, retroactively-speaking?

The Irishman conveys the paradoxical notion that gangsters can’t survive without ice water in their veins, but that this same ice water drains them of recognizable humanity and separates them from other human beings. (You could actually say the same thing about people in other professional arenas.) Martin Scorsese‘s film also reminds that old age is not for sissies, and no matter how you slice it the assaults and indignities of old age — canes, grape juice, white hair, wheelchairs, assisted living and death itself — aren’t that far off and are patiently waiting their turn.

I understand how those with little or no concept of mortality (i.e., Millennials and GenZs) can regard The Irishman at a distance. I also understand how there are some out there who are just too thick or insensitive to appreciate the kind of fine aged wine that The Irishman is pouring.

But there’s no disputing that The Irishman is essentially “Wild Strawberries with handguns” (as Anthony Lane called it a few weeks ago), and there are no other Best Picture contenders with Ingmar Bergman-esque tonalities or aspirations. Think about that.

Think also about the fact that only one award-season film is saying that we’re all going to die (not just a dangerously high percentage of soldiers on the battlefield or actresses with tragic destinies but every last one of us) and that before we push on maybe we should pay more attention to the things that really matter. I’m sorry but that strikes me as a more fundamental and valuable observation than anything else on the table.

What an intermittently strange Golden Globes award show! Congrats to Joaquin, Renee, Brad, Laura and other winners. But big-spending Netflix suddenly appears to be looking at an uphill situation. Marriage Story is probably a lost cause (Laura Dern‘s likely Best Supporting Actress Oscar aside) but they need to somehow re-energize the Irishman campaign.

HE asked a seasoned director about what happened with the two big 1917 wins (Best Picture, Best Director). Answer: “Ambivalence towards Netflix. Hollywood and its denizens will not let Netflix win until they properly release their contenders. Plus 1917 arrived relatively late in the game. Recent impressions are stronger. Boldness of vision and concept.”

8:07 pm: The Golden Globe for Best Motion Picture, Drama goes to 1917? Congrats and well done, but who was predicting this? Text Message from Jett: “The Irishman is in trouble.” Netflix, in fact, was all but shut out. A lot of what was expected to happen didn’t happen.

8:03 pm: Renee Zellweger, as predicted, wins Best Actress, Motion Picture, Drama for Judy. What was Ricky Gervais‘s Harvey Weinstein joke? It was bleeped.

7:54 pm: Joaquin Phoenix wins the Golden Globe for Best Actor, Drama. Joaquin just got bleeped! JP: “I don’t want to rock the boat but…” JP got bleeped again! “We have to take responsibility upon ourselves,” etc. And then he gets played off. JP: “I know people say this but I really do feel honored to be mentioned with you,” etc. Maybe we’ll find out later on what he actually said.

7:45 pm: The Golden Globe for Best Motion Picture, Comedy or Musical goes to Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. Expected! Julia Butters and Margot Robbie take the stage with Quentin Tarantino and others, but Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio don’t take the stage. Odd.

7:37 pm: Awkwafina wins for Best Actress, Comedy or Musical. An actual predicted win aside from Pitt! Richly deserved except for those moments when she first arrives in China and can’t seem to stop herself from radiating gloom, which is not the idea as the family is trying to keep grandma from suspecting the Big Secret.

7:34 pm: Taron Egerton wins Best Actor, Comedy or Musical? What happened to Eddie Murphy, bruhs? 2019 has not been an Egerton year — it’s been a Murphy year. What just happened? Mendes, Egerton…what’s going on?

7:27 pm: Brad Pitt, as expected, wins Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor. Pitt thanks Quentin, of course, as well as “LDC” and Tom Rothman “for his big balls.”

7:23 pm: Joker composter Hildur Gionadottir wins! I thought it would either be 1917‘s Thomas Newman or Marriage Story‘s Randy Newman.

7:12 pm: Richly deserved! Michelle Williams win the Best Actress, limited TV series, for Fosse/Verdon. MW: “Women, please vote in your own self-interest. We are the largest voting body in this country. Let’s make [America] look more like us.” Bravo!! And congrats to Team Chernobyl for winning Best Limited Series of TV Movie award.

7:01 pm: The Golden Globe Best Director award goes to…1917‘s Sam Mendes? A very good film by a highly gifted director, but what just happened? Bong Joon-ho, Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese supporters are slapping their foreheads as we speak. Where did this come from? Who had predicted it? Definitely a left-field win.

6:50 pm: Tom Hanks melts down over love for his family during his acceptance speech. Probably the most widely loved, most amiable fellow in the business. “Show up on time, know your lines and bring a head full of ideas. Check the gate! If the gate is good, then you move on. It’s the cold that’s making this happen. I’m not nearly this emotional at home. Thank you.”

6:40 pm: Unbelievable‘s Toni Collette should have won the Best Supporting Actress. That said, cheers to winner Patricia Arquette (The Act) for referencing the impending likely war with Iran and the Australian bush fires, and the absolute necessity of removing Trump later this year. Hooray also for The Crown‘s (and HE’s own) Olivia Colman for her win.

6:28 pm: For so many years songwriter Bernie Taupin looked like a handsome, good-looking music industry guy in a certain wispy and delicate way, and now he looks like Ernest Stavro Blofeld…like a bald Swiss banker or arms dealer. Congrats to Bernie and Elton for winning the Best Song award.

6:17 pm: Best Supporting Actress award goes to Laura Dern for Marriage Story. (And to a lesser extent for her performance in Little Women.) The saga of of Marriage Story is not about “a family finding their way for their child.” It’s about what the mother wants for her career and how much stress and expense the selfish father will endure to win as much time with his son as possible. Oh, and cheers to Fleabag for winning Best TV series award.

6:10 pm: HE doesn’t “do” animated, no offense, but congrats all the same to Missing Link for winning the Golden Globe Best Animated Feature award, or whatever it’s called.

6:05 pm: Ewan McGregor is wearing blacksides! White shoes with black soles. Quentin Tarantino, winner of the Best Screenplay award, mispronounces John Milius‘s last name. So this means OUATIH wins Best Feature, Comedy/Musical?

6:02 pm: Best Actor, TV Series, Drama: Succession‘s Brian Cox. Excellent actor each and every time. The show is fine. Not to my taste but fine.

5:44 pm: Kate McKinnon handing out the 2020 Carol Burnett award to the great Ellen DeGeneres. Good! A courageous champion and a genuinely witty comedian. That said, EDG’s haircut is too strict and under-cutty. The hair should be longer. And her eyes …well, we’re all getting older but the norm is to “do” something about that, no? It’s normal, expected, par for the course. Brilliant, super-confident riff on “I’m gonna keep it quick.” Plus: “I couldn’t have done it without my husband Mark.” Perfect, just right…cheers.

5:36 pm: And here comes the Parasite award!! Bong Joon-ho had this one in the bag for a long time. Take note, Oscar voters; You can nominate Parasite for Best Picture, fine, but that’ll suffice. Due respect and admiration for a very good film. In the international realm.

5:33 pm: And the GG award for Best Actress in a TV series, Musical or Comedy does to Phoebe Waller Bridge, Fleabag. I’ve watched…uhm, two episodes.

5:28 pm: Gervais quips, “As you know the meal tonight was all vegetables. As are the members of the Hollywood Foreign Press.” Not funny.

5:26 pm: Stellan Skarsgard, whom I spoke to last night at the Lionsgate party, wins the supporting actor award for his Chernobyl performance. Funny guy. Good Milos Forman imitation. Congrats to the Succession guys for winning Best TV Series (Drama). I’m not allowed to say that I stopped watching early in the game because I couldn’t care less about the snakes, vipers and lizards. Throw them all into a volcano pit.

5:10 pm: Russell Crowe wins Best Actor in TV format for The Loudest Voice. He’s not at the ceremony because of the devastating Australian bush fires. Jennifer Aniston reads a statement from Crowe stating that global warming is a prime cause for what’s happening down under. He’s right.

5:03 pm: Ricky Gervais doesn’t care. “Many people of color were snubbed [in the Globes Nominations]. But the members of the Hollywood Foreign Press are very racist…and nothing can be done about that.” Or words to that effect. Plus the Epstein joke. A lot of pop-outs — is NBC bleeping him?

“It’s going to happen.” — from Robert Bolt‘s screenplay of Lawrence of Arabia.

Hollywood Elsewhere’s blow-by-blow commentary begins at 5 pm Pacific, or an hour from now.

Robert Altman-wise, I could watch California Split and The Long Goodbye once a year for the rest of my life. Ditto M.A.S.H., The Player, Thieves Like Us, McCabe and Mrs. Miller and A Wedding. But I’ll probably never watch Popeye ever again. It’s been almost four decades since I saw it (once) but that’s enough.

I have this recollection of Giuseppe Rotunno‘s cinematography being lazy as fuck — just watching the action from a distance, way too reliant on zoomed-in wide and medium shots. Harry Nilsson‘s musical score was kind of a flatliner, no? Ditto Jules Pfeiffer‘s screenplay. I always heard that Popeye was a big cocaine movie, and that this was part of the problem. Legend has it that Robin Williams didn’t get along with Altman. It wasn’t a financial bust — having cost $22 or so million, it made $60 million worldwide. But an impression lingers that it was basically a misconceived failure because of an ill-suited director.

I was told during last night’s Lionsgate’s pre-Golden Globe party that a Knives Out sequel is in the works. It would focus on Daniel Craig‘s Hercule Poirot-like character, debonair private detective Benoit Blanc. The idea would be to launch a franchise that would just keep going and going and going and going and going and going and going. Director-writer Rian Johnson is already at work on the followup. I could have reported this as few hours ago, dammit, but now The Hollywood Reporter has scooped everyone. Fuck a duck. Knives Out has made something like $245 million worldwide thus fair, and it still has legs.

Last night Team Elsewhere (Tatyana and myself) attended another great pre-Golden Globes party, a Lionsgate bash with Knives Out and Bombshell luminaries (Charlize Theron, HE’s own Rian Johnson, Toni Collette (particularly great in Netflix’s Unbelievable), Chris Evans, a less-than-fully-recognizable Ana de Armas) in attendance, and once again orchestrated by the great and garrulous and huggy-touchy Colleen Camp.

Plus Stellan Skarsgard, Billy Zane and some choice hotshot journos (Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, N.Y. Times “Caroetbagger” Kyle Buchanan, Daily Mail‘s Baz Bamigboye, Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman, Variety‘s Jazz Tangcay, Awards Daily TV and movie guy Clarence Moye).

It was cacophonous and a bit crowded but curiously relaxing…just a perfect, honeyed, shelter-from-the-storm vibe up and down…all tony amber and candles and low-light shadow and hors d’oeuvres every which way. Okay, the music was a bit loud.

Prior to the event we chilled with Phillip Noyce and Vuyo Dasi at the San Vicente Bungalows bar — smallish, quiet, darkly lighted, intimate, low-ceilinged. We were greeted by maitre’d Dimitri Dimitrov (formerly of the Sunset Tower bar-restaurant).

BTW: This being January 2020 and all, Tatyana and I have long since forgotten about that bizarre July 2017 episode when a Chateau gatekeeper wouldn’t allow us to visit on our own steam, possibly because they didn’t like the cut of my white pants.

I bought these Bruno Magli lace-ups roughly 15 or 16 months ago. Online, marked down, size 13. But they felt too small. I’d been wearing 12 all my life (or since I was 13 or 14), but I shifted into 13 about a decade ago. For well over a year I’ve been reminding myself to have them stretched out by a local Armenian shoe-repair guy. Tatyana says if I was smart or practical-minded I’d send them back to the online seller and ask for size 14 replacements. But I’ve waited too long to do that. (Plus I almost always throw away boxes and receipts — I can’t stand to have that clutter lying around.) Plus I can’t abide the idea of wearing 14s. I can’t do it. Only big galumphs wear 14s. I am not a grizzly bear or a three-toed sloth or Richard Kiel — I am a deer, a fleet fox, a thoroughbred racehorse.

Originally posted on 8.29.12: The details of this story won’t stagger anyone, but I want it fully understood I’m not making it up. It’s just one of those life-lesson stories that repeats the old adage about “you are your friends and vice versa.”

It was during the summer of ’82, and I was inside a new Italian restaurant on Columbus Ave., a block or two south of the Museum of Natural History. It had opened maybe a day or two earlier, and I remember sipping a vodka and lemonade (my drink back then) and talking to the bartender. There was a big noisy party at a big table in the main dining room. I asked the bartender what the ruckus was and he said, “Oh, that’s the owners and their investors…big dinner.”

I stuck my head inside and noticed that one of the guys at the table was an especially loud, large-framed, overweight guy who looked like a walrus. He was holding a drink in his hand and laughing with great merriment and going “Awwgghhh! Awwgghhh!” as he listened to somebody at the table say something wildly hilarious. He was kind of bouncing up and down in his seat and slapping others on the shoulder and going “awwhh-haaawwwhh!”

Right away I thought to myself, “That guy’s with the owners?” This new restaurant was trying to sell itself as a serious class act, and this guy was the kind of coarse beast you’d find at some neighborhood restaurant in Sheepshead Bay or Canarsie or North Riverdale on a Saturday night, not that there’s anything wrong with Sheepshead Bay, Canarsie or North Riverdale.

15 or 20 minutes later I was in the bathroom and the “awwgghh!” guy sauntered in and went right over to a urinal and did three things at precisely the same time — farted loudly, belched loudly and began to relieve himself. Perfect synchronization.

I knew then and there that this new restaurant wouldn’t make it. I think I actually muttered to myself “okay, that’s it” when I heard the belch-fart. Because any Upper West Side resturateur who has animals for friends will sooner or later lose favor with the locals, I reasoned. Having coarse friends means you have no taste and your judgment stinks, and that kind of thing tends to spread out in all directions.

Four or five months later the restaurant had closed.

Dolittle is set in the Victorian era — the late 1860s, 1870s or 1880s. The underwater sea-diving suit worn by Robert Downey, Jr.‘s Dr. John Dolittle is the same model worn by Kirk Douglas‘s Ned land in 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. What if Downey’s Dolittle and Sherlock Holmes characters were to somehow join up and pool forces with Land, and all three were to hitch a ride on the Nautilus under James Mason‘s Captain Nemo? The only difference being that Nemo’s crew would consist of several talking animals instead of Robert J. Wilke and the others. Plus two or three kids. Then they’d run into the animatronic giant squid, etc. And then the big climax with fearsome, fire-breathing dragon.

A scene in a film is only as effective as the worst (i.e. hammiest) actor in it. In this instance, James Cagney and Edward Woods are invested in the moment, awed by their new guns, behaving within the bounds of realism. The leering guy in the middle is the problem. He’s “acting” and therefore ruining the suspension of disbelief. Such men are dangerous.

For some reason Nick Clement’s relentlessly positive movie reviews drive me up the wall. A respected Variety contributor, Clement’s general policy is to only write about films he loves. The problem is that he loves way too much crap. And his goon followers are equally undiscriminating. When almost everything you see is wonderful, beautifully crafted, super-exciting, heart-touching, triple-wowser and a visual knockout, you wind up devalue-ing the stuff that actually is wonderful, beautifully crafted, super-exciting, heart-touching, triple-wowser and a visual knockout.

I flipped out today when I saw poster art for Fletch Lives on Nick’s page. I said something like “Jesus, you guys are really living in your own universe. Every now and then you might want to come up for some air.”