Lesson #1: Outside of Robert De Niro‘s historic turn as Jake La Motta in Raging Bull and Christian Bale‘s Dick Cheney in Vice, name me one performance that gained in conviction or versimilitude because the actor gained weight for the part.

Okay, Russell Crowe in The Insider, Vincent D’Onofrio‘s “Gomer Pyle” in Full Metal Jacket and Charlize Theron in Monster. I’ll allow these. Five in all.

But how exactly was Bradley Cooper‘s Chris Kyle in American Sniper more convincing or persuasive because he gained 40 pounds? All through my first and only viewing all I could say to myself was “Jesus, Cooper’s less than five pasta dishes away from being a total fatass, albeit a muscular one.”

How was Charlie Sheen‘s Wall Street performance better because Sheen packed on 15 or 20? I could never figure this out.

Ditto Aaron Eckhart as the bad pot-bellied husband in Neil Labute‘s Your Friends and Neighbors (’98).

If I was a successful screen actor I would never pack it on for a role. If I was a much-in-demand director, I would always discourage actors from doing this.

Alfred Hitchcock to Cary Grant prior to filming North by Northwest in 1958: “Cary, Roger Thornhill is a very wealthy man who sets no limits on indulgence. He eats and drinks what he wants, and the world still beats a path to his doorstep. He has to look the part of the arrogant New Yorker. I want you to fly to Italy and eat nothing but pasta and gain 20 to 25 pounds before the start of principal photography.”

Grant to Hitchcock: “Get yourself another Thornhill…no offense.”

“Too much of today’s left is too busy pointing out the ugliness of the Trumpian right to notice its own ugliness: its censoriousness, nastiness and complacent self-righteousness.

“But millions of ordinary Americans see it, and they won’t vote for a candidate who emboldens and empowers woke culture. The Democrat who breaks with that culture, as Clinton did in 1992 over Sister Souljah and Obama did in October over ‘cancel culture,’ is the one likeliest to beat Trump.” — N.Y. Times columnist Bret Stephens in a 12.26 post titled “What Will It Take to Beat Donald Trump?”

In other words, if the Democrats nominate a strident, doctrinaire lefty who winks at the Robespierres, they’re toast.

Hmmmm, let’s see. Who among the top five Democratic presidential contenders is progressive but practical minded in a moderate sort of way, and is less than beholden to the concept of wokester beheadings and witch-dunkings, and has even conveyed an understanding of where conservative, Christian-minded voters are coming from?

“Joker, Irishman, Pain and Glory, Painted Bird all feel like top-tier titles that will be around a long time.

“Jojo Rabbit, Hustlers, Beautiful Day, Parasite, Farewell, Richard Jewell, The Souvenir, Uncut Gems, Marriage story, Dolomite, Honey Boy, 1917, Harriet, Official Secrets: all either very good or at least did what they set out to do.

“Didn’t work for me: Ford v Ferrari, Just Mercy, Little Women, Once Upon A Time, Two Popes, Bombshell, Judy, Knives Out, Rocketman, Late Night, The Report, Waves. Mostly because of dumb scripts or bad directors or both.

“When do you remember me liking 19 titles in one year???”

Incident on Geary Blvd. eastbound bus (12.26): Tatyana and I got on at Geary and Fillmore. The fare was $3 but we only had a fiver. I put the five into the machine, and at the same moment an eccentric man of color (skull cap, layers of clothing, two well-behaved yappy dogs in a stroller) told the bus driver he should let us slide rather than make us pay $5 for two. The driver, a 20something Asian dude, took umbrage and suggested that dog man should zip it. Dog man got angry right back and before you knew it they were off to the races…”big mouth,” “I have a police radio, man…I’ll kick your ass off,” “be quiet…shut your piehole,” “Don’t eat chips…not healthy for you,” “I’m a black animal…how ’bout that?” and so on. Great stuff.

The video editing skills of Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich are far more impressive than his film reviews. To me, at least. He really understands how to generate joy, intrigue, excitement, mystery, etc.

HE’s ten best of ’19 (in this order): The Irishman, Les Miserables, Joker, Queen & Slim, 1917, The Lighthouse, Diane, Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story, David Crosby: Remember My Name.

With her husband and child in tow, a resentful screenwriting daughter (Juliette Binoche) pays a visit to her mother (Catherine Deneuve), an arrogant, legendary, self-centered actress with the usual egocentric problems and tendencies, etc.

You can tell right off the bat that Hirokazu Kore-eda‘s The Truth (IFC Films, 3.20.20) will be a mild cup of tea.

“No matter how strong the performances or how assured the direction may be, The Truth can’t shake how, on a writing level, Kore-eda is out of his element. With so many characters finding themselves questioning their own memories and versions of the past, it’s only natural to start asking questions ourselves.

“But if Kore-eda wants to dictate those questions rather than let viewers ask them on their own, that leaves a lot to be desired. According to Kore-eda, the truth is whatever he tells us it is.” — filed on 9.6.19 by The Film Stage‘s C.J. Prince.

In short, what is anyone’s memory but a highly selective accounting of what may or may not have happened?

The Truth opened yesterday in France.

36 or 37 years ago Roadshow, a Martin Ritt film about a modern-day cattle drive, was a go project under MGM. The contracted costars were Jack Nicholson, Timothy Hutton and Mary Steenburgen. Then Ritt had to back out (possibly over creative differences with MGM, possibly due to health problems) and director Richard Brooks was allegedly hired to take over. Then Brooks suffered a heart attack, and the Roadshow plug was pulled.

Six years later, or on 2.26.89, an L.A. Times story reported that Hutton had won a $9.75 million award against MGM after a Los Angeles Superior Court Jury found that the studio engaged in fraud and breached its contract when it canceled Roadshow.

“Hutton had argued that MGM executives deceived him by telling him the picture was being terminated because the director, Richard Brooks, had suffered a heart attack,” the story reads. “The actor contended that the studio, which had recently undergone a change of management, had lost interest in the film and that Brooks had never agreed to direct it.

“Hutton also maintained that the studio made its decision to drop Roadshow in the spring of 1983 but did not tell him until several months later, thereby depriving him of other possible roles.

“Among those testifying during the months-long trial were Brooks, Ritt, Nicholson, Steenburgen and agent Sue Mengers.”

Why am I mentioning this? Because I’ve always wanted to read a draft of Roadshow. I loved the idea of redoing Red River with a story of an ’80s cattle drive, but I never even read a synopsis…nothing. If anyone could send along a PDF or even a brief story summary, please do.

I was initially intrigued by Lucy Ellman‘s “Patriarchy Is Just a Spell,” a 12.26 N.Y. Times piece about Alfred Hitchcock‘s Spellbound. But the subhead — “I’m outing Alfred Hitchcock’s 1945 thriller Spellbound as a #MeToo film” — doesn’t really manifest.

Ellmann basically notes how the male characters in Spellbound treat Ingrid Bergman‘s character, Dr. Constance Petersen, like a sex object or otherwise disregard her authority as a psychoanalyst. Over and over and over, Gregory Peck included. That doesn’t make Spellbound a #MeToo film. It makes it a study of upscale 1945 culture and how almost all males from that realm were sexist assholes in one way or another, certainly by the standards of 2019.

Spellbound is, was and always will be a less-than-satisfying film. The psychological jargon has always felt gimmicky and simplistic, and Peck’s character, John Ballantyne, is, in fact, a brooding, hair-trigger jerk.

But the film has always held my attention for (a) the falling-in-love, opening-of-doors sequence when Bergman realizes she’s head over heels for Peck and vice versa, and (b) the fact that Bergman and Peck did in fact lock loins during production. Both were 29 at the time.

Peck to People‘s Brad Darrach in a 1987 interview: “All I can say is that I had a real love for her (Bergman), and I think that’s where I ought to stop. I was young. She was young. We were involved for weeks in close and intense work.”

Ellman #1: “Psychoanalysis has often despaired of women. Detailing the faults of mothers has worn out the velvet of many an analytic couch. Freud expressed mystification and exasperation with the uncharitable question ‘What do women want?’

“Well, maybe what women want is to steal the show, regain center stage, which is in fact their rightful place in the world — and in the movies. Echoes of the matriarchal cultures that dominated prehistory lurk in our collective unconscious. Female supremacy is alluring.”

I too find female supremacy alluring. This is probably the way to go, given the toxic tendencies of too many boomer, GenX and Millennial males. Things have to change.

But when I think of what’s happened to the Sundance Film Festival over the last five years **, it does give me pause. Think about that and all of the Robespierre beheadings cancellings.

Tatyana and I are staying at a friend’s place in the South Beach section of San Francisco, about three blocks NW of Oracle Park. It’s a magnificent two-story condo with all the amenities (including excellent wifi). We couldn’t be more grateful for the hospitality.

There’s just one problem, and that’s the fact that the place has no heat to speak of, and in fact feels like the David Lean ice house in Dr. Zhivago. I’m trying to remedy the situation as we speak, but for now the only thing I can do is boil water in the kitchen, which helps a little bit.

It’s not like it’s cold outside — 48 degrees is T-shirt weather for New Yorkers. But the holiday atmosphere in San Francisco is damp and windy and bone-chilling all the same. A half-hour ago I went across the street for a cappuccino, and I instantly felt the horror of the howling ice winds off the bay. If I wasn’t properly dressed I’d be dead in less than an hour.

Tried for exceptional, failed, settled for usual usual.

We’re driving north on the 101 (and soon the coast highway) on a casual, take-our-time trip to San Francisco. I’m riding shotgun as we speak, but the wheel will be mine before long.