You can tell by the tone of the conversation that mouthy hoodie guy (white) and furious skull-cap, yellow-green parka guy (black) aren’t debating the merits of Melina Matsoukas‘ Queen & Slim or the obstinate, bordering-on-self-destructive refusal of African-American voters to give Pete Buttigieg a fair shake. I’m pretty sure hoodie guy is using the “n” word, and is therefore the asshole in this dispute. Yellow-green guy landed four or five punches before it was broken up. This doesn’t look like a New York MTA car — is it? If not, any guesses as to what city?

Ok, I kind of live for the ballsy white guy who jumps right in the middle and says “We’re on public transportation – get your SHIT together”

😂💀😂💀😂💀pic.twitter.com/CFHf4spkj7

— Adam Schiff is a cop 🚨 (@notcapnamerica) November 24, 2019

Hollywood Elsewhere will see Sam Mendes‘ 1917 Sunday afternoon (11.24). Many are impressed. Anxiously waiting other impressions from today’s trio of NYC screenings. Somebody on Twitter called it “World War One-kirk.”

Almost every time the Criterion guys deliver a Bluray remastering (4K or 2K) of a classic film, they make it look darker and inkier than in previous home video manifestations (Rebecca, His Girl Friday, Only Angels Have Wings). Look at the difference between their Rebecca Bluray and previous versions. And my review of their Friday Bluray.

So given this history I’m not understanding why their new All About Eve Bluray doesn’t do the same inky-dinky. Are they the Princes of Monochrome Darkness or not? Gary W. Tooze‘s DVD Beaver comparison shots tell us there’s no noticable difference between the Criterion and the previous Fox Home Video Bluray, and that the monochrome renderings are identically crisp and velvety.

In the view of Vanity Fair contributor Mark Harris, the Gold Derby pundits have made this year’s Best Actress race into a racially stacked deck. Partly or mostly because they’re currently favoring four white actors and one Asian actor — Judy‘s Renée Zellweger, Marriage Story‘s Scarlett Johansson, Little Women‘s Saoirse Ronan, Bombshell‘s Charlize Theron and The Farewell‘s Awkwafina. But more specifically because they’re relegated Harriet‘s Cynthia Erivo, Clemency‘s Alfre Woodard and Us‘s Lupita Nyong’o to slots #6, #7 and #8.

“This is how a narrative gets entrenched,” Harris complains. “There are those who are in, and those who are fighting to get in, and the implicit notion of a quota — the idea that there is one spot for ‘diversity’ — becomes a way of not looking at the performances.”

Here’s another factor to consider. Some would say it’s the dominant factor when it comes to acting nominations.

A noteworthy performance is a noteworthy performance, but the movie in which it lives and breathes is the springboard. If a film is great, excellent or very good, the standout performance in that film stands a very good chance of being celebrated in the usual ways. But if the movie is generally regarded as merely good, half-decent, downish, grim, so-so or stinky, the standout performance is less likely to poll well with the Gold Derby know-it-alls, critics groups, guild and Academy members.

My Gold Derby actress picks are Zellweger, Theron, Johansson, Ronan and Awkwafina.

I haven’t seen Clemency because I loathe the idea of watching another film about capital punishment. I’ll get around to it but I shudder. Then again Woodard might shoot to the top of my list after I catch it.

I haven’t seen Harriet because absolutely everyone on the circuit (African American critics included) has told me it stinks.

And in my opinion Jordan Peele‘s Us is an unusual, mildly spooky but minor horror film, and that Lupita Nypng’o delivers a sturdy double performance (predator and prey) but calm down — it’s primarily a Jamie Lee Curtis terrified-victim performance with a doppleganger side order.

Why the hesitancy about Chinonye Chukwu‘s Clemency, especially given the 97% Rotten Tomatoes rating and the fact that everyone’s been raving about Woodard’s performance as a guilt-ridden warden? Because no matter the angle it’s still a downerish flick about state-administered executions, and it’s just human nature to go “yeah, well, okay, I guess I’ll get around to see it one of these days.” I know that I count suffering through The Green Mile as one of the worst moviegoing experiences of my life.

In an 11.23 conversation with The Daily Beast‘s Marlow Stern, Irishman star (and Joker costar) Robert De Niro allies himself with Pete Buttigieg.

Stern: So who do you think beats Trump in 2020?

De Niro: “I don’t know [but] I like Buttigieg. Biden could get us into calmer waters, that would be a good thing. He means well, and to me, he’s a guy who would do the right thing, make the right decision. But Buttigieg I like a lot. He’s got all the credentials — Rhodes Scholar, Afghanistan veteran — even though he’s young, and if he could get a chance it could be something special, I think.

“As a gay person, he’s someone who comes from a marginalized community, so people from other ethnic groups can identify with him, even if they’re not gay, because they know what it’s like. I think he’s the best for what we need now. I have friends who really like him a lot, as I do.

“With Obama, he had the middle name ‘Hussein’ and a lot of things that people tried to use against him — including Trump with the whole stupid ‘birther’ thing — and he went right through it. It could happen with Buttigieg.”

HE to Michael Musto and Hollywood Reporter Oscar soothsayer Scott Feinberg: We’ve got a major conflict between you two as far as Greta Gerwig‘s Little Women (Sony, 12.25) is concerned. La Dolce Musto has Greta’s film at the very top of his Gold Derby Best Picture spitball list, and yet Scott has relegated Little Women to his second-tier “Major Threats” list, which is a Feinberg euphemism for “don’t bet the farm.”

You guys are obviously on opposite poles. One of you is probably missing or sidestepping something, and that person may be Feinberg — who knows? I realize that a lot of progressive-identifying women want to see Little Women triumph, but I wonder if it has the horses.

I’m a “yes but” admirer of Little Women. A month ago I called it “highly respectable, nicely burnished, well performed, lusciously authentic,” etc. On the other hand it never quite finds a groove, the flashback device is a bit confusing, the manuscript of Saoirse Ronan‘s Jo is burned once too often (regardless of whether or not Louisa May Alcott wrote it this way — did she?) and Timothee Chalamet‘s character doesn’t know who or what he wants, and when told “no, sorry” he flips over like a pancake.

In other words, I’m basically with Feinberg.

Michael, this is your chance to deftly and gracefully withdraw as Little Women‘s biggest booster. You don’t want to be the Japanese solder hiding out in a jungle cave after U.S troops have taken the island in 1945.

The domestically partnered Gerwig and Marriage Story director-writer Noah Baumbach are obviously the dominant award-season power couple, but Little Women‘s 12.25 release date is not what most handicappers would call particularly Oscar-friendly, at least by the way things have worked over the last decade or so.

I’m also sensing a bit of trouble waiting for Marriage Story, if you wanna know. Or more precisely for Baumbach.

Marriage Story will be Best Picture-nominated, for sure, but the dirty little secret of the pre-1917 Oscar community conversation is that the curious absence of a Spirit Awards Best Director nomination for Baumbach probably means something. A lot of us were surprised by this, as all along it’s seemed clear that Baumbach dug deep and has made his most compassionate and emotionally well-layered film. So what’s the issue?

All I can figure is that there’s some kind of whisper campaign than Baumbach cast his alter ego character, Charlie, in too charitable a light. That by depicting Scarlett Johansson‘s Nicole character as the angry, argumentative one who wants the divorce and takes the son to Los Angeles, he more or less stuck it to his ex-wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh, while failing to acknowledge…let’s leave it there.

So getaway driver C.W. Moss decided to parallel park while Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker were robbing a small-town bank — brilliant. And then when his gray-haired, overall-wearing daddy told him to “stay away from those two” and keep his mouth shut on a certain afternoon in rural Louisiana, C.W. did just that — a friend to the end.

I’m sorry about the passing of Michael J. Pollard at age 80, but I could never sort out my feelings about C.W.

Pollard’s other standout performance was opposite Robert Redford in Big Fauss and Little Halsy, which I haven’t seen in God knows how long.

I’ve long believed in a JFK murder conspiracy (who doesn’t?), at least as far as a grassy knoll shooter is concerned. But you’ll never, ever persuade me that Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t squeeze off three shots from his sixth-floor perch inside the Texas School Book Depository, or that the Zapruder film shows any kind of occipital back-of-the-head wound because it doesn’t.

But I also believe that film scholar Joseph McBride is persuaded otherwise, and that he knows a lot more about what may or may not have happened, or has certainly invested in the meticulous research. So in deference to this…

Eulogy for my late sister Laura, who died from cancer in the spring of ’08 (and which I posted in this space about five years ago):

When she was young, before her mid-teen years, my sister Laura was very much in the game. She had a high IQ — higher than mine, I recently learned — and was quick and alert. She told and got jokes, and was animated, playful and full of pep. She had a wonderful laugh and had, until the end of her life, the most beautiful smile. She’d smile and you’d melt.

As a young girl she was sometimes a bit feisty. One of my vivid early memories is coming home from elementary school one afternoon (I was in the first or second grade) and telling my mother, who was lying on her bed, about something good that had happened — a good grade, a pat on the back from my teacher, something along these lines — and Laura, who was standing next to my mother’s bed, saying, “So what?”

I was never as close to Laura, then or later in life, as was Tony, our younger brother, but I’ve never forgotten this impression of her — a girl who had opinions and gumption and intelligence to spare, and who gave as good as she got.

Sadly, that side of Laura never matured, much less developed. She became afflicted in her mid-teen years with schizophrenia and never left the ground, much less spread her wings. Most of her life, sadly, was about coping, about holding on as best she could and getting by with a measure of dignity. She lived in her heart and her mind, but not, truth be told, very much in the present.

A few days ago I heard a writer or journalist of some distinction (I forget his name) say that Ireland wasn’t about the present or the future, but about the past, over and over. As she got older, that was Laura through and through.

She was occasionally a contentious person, but she was mostly quiet and gentle and meditative. She had a good heart, which is to say a better heart than mine. She cared deeply about spiritual matters, and one aspect of this is that she became a Catholic, as I recall, sometime near the start of this century. Her day-to-day life was about what she could do within the margins of her affliction, a cruel hand that was dealt to her at birth, but her inner life was enormous and deep and perhaps even radiant.

In my early 20s I was a tree guy — trimming, shaping, cabling, ropes, saddles, chain saws, pole saws. On both coasts. Except the approach is different in Los Angeles because everything grows back so quickly and abundantly here, so the motto is “cut the shit out of everything” while back east they want you to be a little more lacey and delicate. Californians never ask for that or they’d be paying you to come back every three or four months.

Around 7:30 this morning a crew started working on a nearby Jacaranda tree, and as usual they were butchering the shit out of it. It was a tree before they started — after they finished it was a hat rack. I went up to them and asked, “Why don’t you just cut it all down and cut it into firewood? There’s barely anything left — why not finish the job?”

One of the tree guys shrugged and said, “It’s what they wanted.” He was blameless, of course. But what a drag, I was thinking, that pretty trees are always getting raped out here. Because hat-rack trimmings destroy the shade element, and then you have to wait six months to a year before the leaves grow out and return to any degree.

The day before another tree crew was chain-sawing away and cutting the shit out of the Ficus trees on Melrose. Same hornet whine, same cutting aesthetic, truckloads of brush hitting the street, shoved into a chipper, etc.

All this ugly noise and destruction made me think of the huge trees along the Tiber in Rome — sycamores, oaks, eucalyptus, planes, umbrella pines — and how wonderfully massive they all seem to be when you first drive into town, and all the wonderful shade they create, and how they never seem to get trimmed or chain-sawed and how the tips of long branches always shoot out over the Tiber and at times touch the water.

I don’t know how old these Tiber trees are on average, but fairly damn old.

Big trees and their cool, calming shadows are a much bigger deal in Rome than in West Hollywood. I think it’s safe to say that without qualification.

“I did a show in Vegas, must have been 12, 15 years ago. And we tried to do an 11 pm show [but] people didn’t want that. So we moved the show back to 9 pm. The hotel alerted just about everybody, but some people didn’t get the email. So I’m walking through the lobby…Hard Rock, Planet Hollywood, some place like that…after the show’s over. It’s like 10:55….the show was at 9. I come across this guy with his family, and he says ‘hey, I’m here for the 11 pm show, they told me…’ And I said, ‘I know, I’m so sorry, they switched the time of the show, it’s over.’ And he says, ‘But we flew in from Idaho. To see you.’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry, what can I do?’ And he kept going on, and I finally said, ‘How much was the show?’ And I pulled out my own wallet and paid him back, $450 or whatever it was. And without missing a beat, the guy goes, ‘What about the air fare?'”

The story starts around the 9:15 mark.

If you still haven’t seen Todd Douglas Miller‘s Apollo 11 in IMAX, please do so during the coming one-week re-engagement (starting on 12.6). And while you’re watching you might want to play a little game with yourself. There’s a whole lot of pre-launch footage of NASA technicians, VIP NASA guests, and Average Joe tourists waiting to see the launch. The name of the game is “Find the Obese People.” Because in 1969 they were all but nonexistent. You might spot one or two NASA technicians who could stand to exercise a bit more, but no Jackie Gleason types. Among the tourists it’s really hard to find a moderately fat person, and damn near impossible to spot any serious Jabbas. It’s just the way things were back then.