Just before Telluride the rumble was that Netflix was placing most of its award-season hopes upon Noah Baumbach‘s Marriage Story, which has an emotionally relatable story, a well-chiselled screenplay and dynamic performances from Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson. Not that they don’t respect or believe in Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman, but that they’re unsure how well a sprawling Lawrence of Arabia-sized gangster film will play with Academy and guild members.

But guess what? All the Toronto Film Festival has proven so far is that other would-be contenders don’t have the poetry or the muscle, and that the field is thinning, thinning, thinning. Which means that the more this or that contender falls by the wayside (and I’m saying this knowing that Just Mercy might take the Toronto Film Festival audience award), the better things look for The Irishman, 1917 and Clint Eastwood‘s Richard Jewell.

I’ve also been been channeling a certain hair-on-the-back-of-my-neck feeling that I’ve shared with colleagues, to wit: Marriage Story, which I totally fell for during Telluride and regard as one of the best of the year so far, may (I say “may”) begin to lose a little steam after regular people start talking about it. Ticket buyers and Academy members, I mean. Because emotionally speaking it ain’t Kramer vs. Kramer. It’ll be respected and saluted all around, but I’m sensing that the emotional reception may be on the muted side. Maybe.

Driver will be Best Actor nominated, for sure, but brave and valiant ScarJo may take a hit for standing by Woody.

Toronto-attending critic #1: “I’m starting to hear people already complaining that Baumbach sides more with Driver than Scarjo’s character. Could be a developing controversy down the road.” Toronto-attending critic #2: “The siding-with-Driver observation is a misreading. A closer reading reveals that Driver’s character is actually in the wrong. But most male critics don’t get that. If you ask me the biggest thing working against Marriage Story (at least as far as awards season is concerned) is the Netflix factor. When it’s ‘released,’ it’s going to go into the Netflix Bermuda triangle.”

Strangely, curiously, some Toronto-attending journos have suggested that critically shellacked JoJo Rabbit might somehow become an Oscar hottie. The reason, apparently, is because it takes a bold stand against hate!

This is demented, of course. So many critics these days are willfully forsaking considered critical judgment in favor of yea/nay responses about whether or not a film is saying the right thing according to preferred political currents. And it’s nuts. We’re living through such derangement.

Most sage observers (i.e., myself among them) are sensing that Jojo Rabbit is probably finished as a potential awards nominee. Not with an aggregate Metacritic rating of 50…no way. A potential hit with younger viewers? Maybe.

THR‘s Scott Feinberg: “For some potential viewers, Waititi’s association with Jojo Rabbit is enough to get them to show up to see and, in some cases, to gush over the film, as many certainly did at its world premiere, where it was very warmly received.

“But the next day it clocked in at a terrible 55 percent on Rotten Tomatoes (not helped by the fact that all of the characters seem to speak with different accents), a range from which very few films have ever emerged to receive major Oscar recognition (it is now up to 75 percent, which is better but still not great). There are certainly aspects of the film that are strong — Sam Rockwell‘s crazy performance and Thomasin McKenzie‘s quiet one, the colorful production design, etc.

“But at the end of the day, I just cannot see Academy members gravitating to the film itself in large numbers.”

There’s an upside to David Ehrlich‘s impressionistic remark about how it feels to watch Motherless Brooklyn. The upside is that Edward Norton’s film, which actually runs 144 minutes, could be converted into a modest miniseries after it finishes its theatrical run. Six or seven hours, I’m thinking. A weekend binge watch. I honestly believe that a good portion of the viewing audience is more receptive to longform streaming than a theatrical one-off.

In an award-season handicapper piece on Joker, THR‘s Scott Feinberg (a) skillfully avoids mentioning the term “incels“, (b) basically says that uncomfortable echoes of recent mass shootings by loner nutjobs may be a subliminal factor as far as Academy voters are concerned (and that Joker might therefore be fucked in the awards race), and (c) agrees that Joaquin Pheonix‘s chances of being Best Actor nominated are strong, but at the same time offers a backhanded assessment of his chances of winning.

Feinberg: “The one thing about which everyone seems to agree, though, is that Phoenix, as usual, does his job remarkably well. He is frighteningly believable as Fleck/Joker, not least because, frankly, he has always come across as a little disturbed himself — see not only the 2010 ‘documentary’ I’m Still Here, but even his speech at Monday’s TIFF Tribute Gala, where he was honored.

“[Phoenix] totally committed to the part, dropping an astounding 52 pounds, which certainly makes him look like something is seriously wrong with him. And, most effectively, he plays the character, who has a Tourette’s-like disorder that causes him to laugh at odd times, as someone who is trying his best to be better, but just can’t get out of his own way.”

Translation: Feinberg believes that as the award season grinds on, Phoenix won’t be able to get out of his own way either.

“Deranged nutcases play quite well with the Academy,” Feinberg goes on, “usually in the supporting race, but not infrequently in the lead race as well. The film to which Joker has been most likened is Martin Scorsese‘s Taxi Driver — there is even an homage to that 1976 film in Joker involving a finger pointed at a head like a gun — and Robert De Niro received a best actor Oscar nom for that, losing to another actor who played a crazy guy not unlike Joker (who gets violent on live TV), Network‘s Peter Finch.

“Others nominated in the best actor category for playing wackos include Jack Nicholson for 1985’s Prizzi’s Honor; Anthony Hopkins for 1991’s The Silence of the Lambs, who won over De Niro for Cape Fear; Billy Bob Thornton for 1996’s Sling Blade; Edward Norton for 1998’s American History X; Daniel Day-Lewis for 2002’s Gangs of New York; Johnny Depp for 2007’s Sweeney Todd; and Steve Carell for 2014’s Foxcatcher.”

HE exception: Peter Finch‘s Howard Beale, Jack Nicholson‘s Charley Partanna and Billy Bob Thornton‘s Karl Childers are not “wackos”. They’re simply men on their own odd wavelength, walking their own path, living in their own realm.

Beale behaved like a raving eccentric, true, but he was guided by cosmic perceptions and imbued with a magnificent mystical current and a “great unseen living force”, or what the Hindus call “prana.”

Beale explains early on that he’s not experiencing a psychotic episode “but a cleansing moment of clarity. I’m imbued with some special spirit….a shocking eruption of great electrical energy…I feel vivid, flashing…like I’ve suddenly been plugged into some great electro-magnetic field. But it’s not a breakdown. I’ve never felt more orderly in my life.”

Partanna is a sociopath who works as a crime-family assassin, granted, but if you can get past that he’s a fairly average fellow with “normal” interests and concerns. In the final act he actually reveals himself as a fairly timid and obedient type.

By the end of Sling Blade Childers has shown he’s unable to live by the usual social conventions (as it “thou shalt not murder Dwight Yoakam‘s abusive alcoholic by chopping his head open with a sling blade”) but he’s fundamentally quiet and gentle and compassionate. Feinberg excepted, Karl is no one’s idea of a “wacko”. The reason Sling Blade was a hit is that audiences recognized Karl as a mentally impaired but basically good guy.

I’m sorry but every so often you need to downshift and settle your ass down and just eyeball the scenery. I took one of these photos with an iPhone 7 Plus; the other with an 8 Plus. The Monument Valley one was snapped about a year ago, and the Tuscany landscape (Radda in Chianti) was taken in late May of ’17.

posted on 5.31.17

posted on 9.4.18

Imagine that you’re 28 years younger and that Gold Derby is a popular weekly print publication (a Los Angeles Times supplement) in 1991, and you, the editor, are printing your first issue of “the season” in late September. Insiders and ticket-buyers alike raved about The Silence of the Lambs earlier this year, and in your mind there’s no question that Anthony Hopkins‘ riveting portrayal as Hannibal Lecter will be a leading contender for Best Actor.

But then comes word that strategists for Orion Pictures, the distributor, don’t think Hopkins can reasonably compete for the Best Actor Oscar — that his screen time only amounts to 15 minutes or less, and that his proper designation is as a Best Supporting Actor nominee. Hopkins, in their view, has delivered menace and flair and a vivid personality, but not a lead performance.

Being a man of the people and a guy of excellent instincts as far as Oscar prospects are concerned, you’re naturally flabbergasted that Orion is thinking this way. The question is “what do you do?” Do you meekly go along with Orion’s curious assessment, or do you challenge them in the court of public opinion by saying “wait, hold on…Hopkins is galvanizing in The Silence of the Lambs…he owns that film, regardless of how much screen time he has…due respect but you guys really need to re-think this.”

The exact same situation is manifesting right now in the matter of Tom Hanks‘ performance in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. The question is, what will Tom O’Neill do? Because everyone in Toronto has said the same thing, which is that regardless of whether Fred Rogers is a lead or supporting role, Hanks owns that film completely. When he’s off-screen, the movie sags. In other words, Fred Rogers is the new Hannibal Lecter.

Right now Gold Derby is only allowing Oscar experts to vote for Hanks in the Best Supporting Actor category. Does it make any sense to anyone that Sony would want to push both Hanks and Once Upon A Time in Hollywood‘s Brad Pitt for the same Supporting Actor Oscar? Against each other under the same studio shingle? In my book the trophy is Pitt’s to lose.

I saw John Crowley‘s The Goldfinch (Warner Bros., 9.13) last week. Due respect to fans of Donna Tartt’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 2013 novel, but I immediately sensed a lack of cinematic oxygen — no allure, intrigue or fascination. I immediately wanted to leave the theatre, see something else. Maybe get some hot food on Venice Blvd. or hike around Benedict Canyon. Or maybe just leap on the motorcycle and go.

I certainly wanted to escape the presence of Oakes Fegley, whose “cute little boy with glasses” routine rubbed me the wrong way and then some.

It’s been mentioned that Tartt’s 784-page book, which is about a young boy’s meandering, years-long adventures on the antique and art-theft circuit after suffering through a Manhattan museum bombing and the resultant death of his mother, should have been adapted into a Netflix or Amazon miniseries (six or seven hours, say) rather than a 149-minute theatrical film. Maybe.

All I knew is, I didn’t want to watch it. The movie felt flat, dull, inert. I mentioned a few weeks ago that I tend to have difficulty with trauma-recovery dramas, especially those involving terrorism. But I also have difficulty with movies in which Nicole Kidman plays a Manhattan woman of wealth and sensitivity who cares…oh, forget it. Kidman’s practiced “sensitivity” annoys like a dripping bathtub faucet at 3 am, or like a jackhammer.

Ansel Elgort plays the 20something version of Fegley’s Theo Decker character. I’m sorry but the 25 year-old actor made a mistake in agreeing to star in this thing. It will do nothing but detract from his reputation. Then again he’ll star next year as “Tony” in Steven Spielberg‘s West Side Story. So there’s that.

“The other thing that still works in The Vikings‘ favor is the film’s refusal to dramatically amplify the fact that Kirk Douglas‘s Einar and Tony Curtis‘s Eric, mortal enemies throughout the film, are in fact brothers, having both been sired by Ernest Borgnine‘s Ragnar.

“Ten minutes from the conclusion Janet Leigh‘s Princess Morgana begs Douglas to consider this fraternity, and he angrily brushes her off. But when his sword is raised above a defenseless Curtis at the very end, Douglas hesitates. And then Curtis stabs Douglas in the stomach with a shard of a broken sword, and Douglas is finished.

“The way he leans back, screams ‘Odin!’ and then rolls over dead is pretty hammy, but that earlier moment of hesitation is spellbinding — one of the most touching pieces of acting Douglas ever delivered.

“I’m not trying to build The Vikings up beyond what it was — a primitive sex-and-swordfight film for Eisenhower-era Eloi. But it did invest in that submerged through-line of ‘brothers not realizing they’re brothers while despising each other’, and the subtlety does pay off.” — originally posted on 3.27.06, on the occasion of Richard Fleischer‘s passing.

[1:46] “It’s got a rhythm, got a musicality, and it’s a challenge because it’s so poetic and [there are so many] expressions to play on your mind and accomplish so much. But at the same time it’s elevated so you have to root it…you have to know exactly why you’re saying it. But, like all good text, once you jump on it and you jump on it in a pure way, it’s like a freight train…it just takes you.”

From 2019 Toronto Film Festival discussion of Robert Eggers’ The Lighthouse (A24, 10.18) — Eggers, Willem Dafoe and RBatz.

Or, to put it another way, is Joaquin Phoenix too honorably eccentric to play the old Academy kiss-ass game during the season? He obviously hates it already and it hasn’t even begun.

[3:37 mark] “I don’t know who’s really giving me this award or why. In fact, I don’t care. My publicist said somebody wants to give me an award and I said, ‘I’m in, let’s do it.’ Honestly, I thought I was gonna come out and just make a lot of tasteless jokes at my expense and yours, but watching those clips — I’m so embarrassed to admit this, but — I feel overwhelmed with emotion, because I just think about all the people that had such a profound influence on me throughout my career.”

One of the reasons Brad Pitt is going to win Best Supporting Actor for his Cliff Booth performance is because the Academy membership knows that it needs to offer a make-up for not giving him the Best Actor Oscar for his performance in Moneyball. Nudging ahead of George Clooney‘s honorable turn in The Descendants, Pitt’s performance as Billy Beane was the best of the five nominated performances from 2011. Jean Dujardin winning for his silent but exceedingly broad performance in The Artist was (a) effing ridiculous and (b) deeply embarassing in hindsight. The simpletons voted for Dujardin while those who recognize and appreciate real, charismatic movie-star performing voted for Pitt, and the simpletons won.

Uncut Gems is a full-barrelled, deep dive into the realm of a manic, crazy-fuck gambler (Adam Sandler), and yes, it “feels like being locked inside the pinwheeling brain of a lunatic for more than two hours,” as Peter Debruge wrote. And guess what? It’ll make your head explode and drive you fucking nuts. By the time it’s over you’ll be drooling and jabbering and gasping for air.

And yet Uncut Gems has a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. In other words not one person so far feels as I do. And I’m telling you the truth, mon freres. Which is why you can’t trust “critics”, per se. Because they’re all living in their own little fickle cubbyholes while Hollywood Elsewhere is standing tall and firm with its feet planted on the sidewalk and looking dead smack at cosmic reality each and every minute of every day…no let-up.