When it comes to 2020 Oscar nominations, Hollywood Elsewhere is partly run-of-the-mill and partly…well, a bit peculiar. In some ways I’m a lot like Scott Feinberg, and more similar than not to Sasha Stone. But I’m everybody’s brother and son. I ain’t much different from anyone. Well, in some ways I am.

Advance warning: Bong Joon-ho‘s over-praised social dramedy will wind up Best Picture nominated (along with a locked nom for Best International Feature), but it must not and can not win in the former category…no!

Best Picture in order of likelihood: The Irishman, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, 1917, Parasite, Joker, Marriage Story (6). Outliers: Little Women (will a series of impassioned journalist columns and the ever-present Twitter fervor push it through?), Jojo Rabbit (too broad, too comedically tidy, lacking in boldness), Ford v Ferrari (respectable character-driven drama, excellent race-car footage), Knives Out (VERY clever, first-rate popcorn whodunit), Uncut Gems (an endurance test to sit through, the Safdies are sadists). (5)

Best Director in order of likelihood: Martin Scorsese, The Irishman; Quentin Tarantino, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood; Sam Mendes, 1917; Bong Joon-ho, Parasite; Todd Phillips, Joker. (5)

Possible surprise omission: Noah Baumbach, Marriage Story (not much momentum over last four months, might fall by the wayside). Forget it: Taika Waititi, Jojo Rabbit.

Best Actor in order of likelihood: Joaquin Phoenix, Joker; Adam Driver, Marriage Story; Jonathan Pryce, The Two Popes; Antonio Banderas, Pain and Glory; Taron Egerton, Rocketman.

Not happening: Leonardo DiCaprio, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (nobody has said boo about Leo’s performance — all the heat has been about Brad).

Best Actress in order of likelihood: Renée Zellweger, Judy; Scarlett Johansson, Marriage Story; Charlize Theron, Bombshell; Saoirse Ronan, Little Women; Awkwafina, The Farewell.

Shameful omission of the best female lead performance of the year: Mary Kay Place, Diane.

Forget it: Lupita Nyong’o, Us. Not a chance: Cynthia Erivo, Harriet.

Best Supporting Actor in order of likelihood: Brad Pitt, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood; Al Pacino, The Irishman; Joe Pesci, The Irishman (will cancel each other out), Tom Hanks, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood; Jamie Foxx, Just Mercy.

Not likable enough: Anthony Hopkins, The Two Popes. Too broad: Taika Waititi, Jojo Rabbit.

Best Supporting Actress in order of likelihood: Laura Dern, Marriage Story; Jennifer Lopez, Hustlers; Kathy Bates, Richard Jewell. (3) Possible: Shuzhen Zhao, The Farewell.

Should be nominated but won’t be: Julia Butters, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

Unworthy contenders: Scarlett Johansson, Jojo Rabbit (because her character was hung?); Margot Robbie, Bombshell (because Roger Ailes humiliates her in that one agonizing scene?); Nicole Kidman, Bombshell (because she delivers a prim-and-proper performance that she could have performed in her sleep?).

Call me bullish, biased or delusional, but I refuse to take this man out of my Oscar predictions. pic.twitter.com/hgr0B6xrAr

— Zach Laws (@zachlaws) January 12, 2020

In a 1.11 Facebook entry, director Eugene Jarcecki (The King, Reagan, Why We Fight) posts some photos of various West Village retail shops that have shuttered and laments “the lie of a ‘booming’ economy…in Gentrification 2.0, where even the crappy soulless establishments that once replaced the original mom-and-pop places, even these onetime intruders can no longer survive.”

One of the photos was of the recently shuttered Vesuvio’s Bakery (or more precisely the Birdbath bakery inside the Vesuvio’s storefront) at 160 Prince Street. Devastating. I haven’t been to Manhattan since last spring, and had somehow missed the closing last August. Early 20th Century storefronts like Vesuvio’s are the heart and soul of what remains of the old West Village. This kind of thing has been happening in Manhattan for the last 20, 25 years. Earthy single-owner establishments have been dropping like flies, and with them the flavor and character of Sidney Lumet‘s Manhattan.

In ’78 and ’79 I lived a hop, skip and a jump away at 143 Sullivan Street. I was mostly miserable back then, and yet I felt so glad that my apartment was part of a living, breathing neighborhood composed of mom-and-pop businesses, and run by people with pugnacious New York personalities.

Eugene Jarecki anecdote: During the annual Sony Pictures Classics party in the middle of the 2005 Toronto Film Festival, I was talking to Jarecki about Why We Fight, which the festival was screening. We were engaged in the usual party chit-chat. And then I somehow shifted into a testy-bordering-on-hostile discussion with MCN’s David Poland, who was standing right next to me. “Whoa, wait,” Jarecki quipped. “This sounds like a real conversation…you guys actually have something to say to each other!”

Morgan Freeman had a point, but Rod Lurie had a better one. Read Lurie’s Facebook tale below [posted on 1.9], and then consider Elia Kazan‘s story about shooting On The Waterfront in December of ’53 and early ’54. In the video it starts at 42 seconds, ends at 1:24.

On The Waterfront director Elia Kazan: “We were shooting [On The Waterfront] in the winter, and it was a cold winter. And as we went along [we got] more and more into the winter, more and more cold and rain…and we never stopped shooting. And Brando…sometimes I had to go into the hotel…I think it was called the Majestic hotel, some phony name…I had to go in and drag him out because it was too cold out there, and he’s not very hearty in some ways. And also the cold helped the actors’ faces. They looked a certain way…they were sunk in here. They didn’t have this lovely flesh of success that leading men in Hollywood have…dimpled, pink, beautiful complexions. They were miserable looking human beings, and that included Brando.”

I was initially concerned that this 1.9 SNTS piece by “Cameron” was a hit piece of some kind. Then I started reading…uh-huh, okay, yeah, hmmm, alright. Somewhere along the way I realized it’s an okay thing for the most part. I would only argue with the c-word, which always sounds dismissive. What it means in this context is “crazy like Yossarian.” As in eccentric, mercurial, unpredictable, partially outside the box, unregimented. Anyway, dodged a bullet.

Pier Paolo Pasolini‘s Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom is a grotesque portrait of fascism unbridled, but it’s certainly no satire. A “satire” this cold and clinical inevitably morphs into something else. Salo is essentially a horror film about the practice of cruelty…cruelty and contempt taken to their final expression. And yet it’s certainly a tougher, harder, more unforgiving creation than Jojo Rabbit, and a much fiercer thing than Taiki Waititi ever thought to attempt. Talk about films that focus on a similar situation but exist in two completely separate universes. There’s a Salo scene in which the four brute fascists (Paolo Bonacelli, Giorgio Cataldi, Umberto Paolo Quintavalle, Aldo Valletti) are dressed in drag, looking like perverse middle-aged biddies with pearl necklaces, too much rouge, ornate hats and whatnot. Imagine if Jojo Rabbit had the nerve to be this dark, this diseased.

Posted on 4.3.10: I knew when I first saw Greenberg that it obviously wasn’t Night at the Museum, but I figured that the usual indie suspects would discover and support it, and that it might eventually find its way to cult success as one of the finest character-driven, psychologically acute, no-laugh-funny flicks in a long while.

There’s really no disputing that Greenberg is one of the best films released this year (along with Roman Polanski‘s The Ghost Writer), and yet guys are bolting out of Greenberg showings and going up to theatre managers and saying “I want a refund”? What?

If I didn’t like Greenberg I would slink out quietly and keep my feelings to myself and my friends. I would at least defer to its reputation among most critics and tastemakers and say, “Okay, fine, critics and their weird tastes…but it’s not for me.” I certainly wouldn’t turn my animosity into a vocal lobby rant.

People not liking or recommending a film is standard, but this kind of hostility, I suspect, means Greenberg is touching some kind of nerve. It’s not just about a somewhat dislikable neurotic, but about a guy who’s at best treading water at age 40 and looking at a lot more of the same as he gets older. Speaking as the older brother of a guy whose life ended tragically because of this syndrome, I know this is about as scary as it gets. There are millions of people out there who are not that different from Ben Stiller‘s character, or who know people who are in this kind of head-jail.

As I said in my initial review, “Greenberg is about what a lot of 30ish and 40ish people who haven’t achieved fame and fortune are going through, or will go through. It’s dryly amusing at times, but it’s not kidding around.”

Many people feel as I do, of course, but Greenberg is clearly a major polarizer. It’s all evident on the Greenberg IMDB chat boards. Here’s how one fellow (i.e., “Famous Mortimer,” the guy who sent me the photo) defends it:

“I think it is provoking such strong levels of resentment from viewers because it is a movie very much of these times but not made in the style of these times. It exposes the toxic levels of conceitedness and alienation today with the sincerity and empathy of ’70’s films by Ashby, Altman and Allen.

“First off, it’s a story about people. There is no high concept or shoehorned stake-raising set piece. Viewers either have the patience to connect with the human pain on display or they are lost. Unlike Sideways, there is no charming countryside setting or buddy comedy hijinks to punch up the mood.

“Second, the dialogue is the action. Only when the viewer is willing to think over the dialogue will characters’ seemingly ambiguous motivations and back-stories become clear. There’s no juicy monologue or nauseating flashback to convey these points. Instead, the viewer comes upon them over the course of the film in the form of passing references made by various characters. It is up to us to take these bits and pieces together and unlock the character revelations for ourselves. No more spoon-feeding cinema.

“Third, this film is a labor of love. That means idiosyncratic details are to be found at every level of its making. Only by thinking these details over and feeling the connections between them do we appreciate what the movie is trying to do. It’s a really thoughtful and heartfelt experience.”

A 1.10 podcast chat between Vanity Fair‘s Nick Bilton and Gabriel Sherman:

In William Freidkin‘s Cruisin’, Al Pacino‘s Steve Burns is asked “how big are you?” — i.e., hung like a horse or a cashew? Pacino replies that he’s “party size,” which I always presumed meant that he was more like a Mustang car (sizable enough but sleek) than a Mustang horse.

We’re all heard the rumors about which Hollywood guys had/have the heftiest packages: Willem Dafoe, Humphrey Bogart, Milton Berle, Frank Sinatra, Liam Neeson, Michael Fassbender, Ed Begley, Jr., Gary Cooper, James Woods, Bruce Willis, Harrison Ford, David Duchovny, Matt Dillon, Jim Carrey, Errol Flynn, Charlie Chaplin, etc.

But the rumors are mostly bullshit, I’ve always suspected, because the rumor-mongers never distinguish between show-ers and growers, and this is key. Nobody’s a show-er when they’re walking out of chilly ocean waters, for instance. Or when they’re getting a traffic ticket. Or waiting in line at the DMV.

Those on the other end of the spectrum has allegedly included Ken Jeong, Elvis Presley (i.e., “Little Elvis”), Clark Gable, Adolf Hitler…who else?

The aspiring elephant club also includes (according to worthless internet rumor) Orlando Bloom, Daniel Craig, Ralph Fiennes, Vincent Gallo, Jason Momoa, Eddie Murphy, Jared Leto, Kevin Hart, Colin Farrell, Jon Hamm, JayZ, Ben Affleck…but it’s all bullshit, I tell you. Certainly a good deal of it. Certain people spread rumors through friends and allies in order to enhance their legend. No one can be trusted about anything.

Just to be different, I’d like to hear scurrilous rumors about which behind-the-camera fellows — directors, screenwriters, producers, cinematographers, studio heads, agents, supporting actors, stand-up comedians — belong in this alleged fraternity of size.

Posted three-plus years ago: “Can anyone imagine a more noir-ish sounding title than They Won’t Believe Me? The world won’t cut me a break, won’t stop shitting on me, won’t trust me, won’t look inside to see who I really am, won’t give me a job or lend a helping hand, refuses to love me, etc. It’s the ultimate expression of despondency.”

I’ve just watched this clip of TCM’s Noir Alley host Eddie Muller (aka “The Czar of Noir”) talking about They Won’t Believe Me, and reporting that screenwriter Jonathan Latimer‘s original ending had accused murderer Robert Young leaping to his death from a courtroom window, followed by the jury rendering a verdict of not guilty.

But the production code guys insisted that a person can’t commit suicide, Muller says, and so “a trigger-happy baliff” shoots Young before he leaps.

Posted on 11.2.16: “You can’t stream Irving Pichel‘s They Won’t Believe Me, a 1947 noir in which Robert Young played a weak, disloyal, manipulative shit. I haven’t seen it in eons, but I vividly remember the final scene when Young, a wrongfully accused defendant in a murder trial, is shot dead by a cop when he tries to leap out of a courtroom window just before the verdict is read. Cut to close-up of the jury foreman reading the verdict: ‘Not guilty.’

“The only way you can see They Won’t Believe Me is on TMC and via a Region 2 DVD. No Amazon, no Netfix, no Vudu, no nothin’.

“I was taken by the film because Young was a consummate exuder of domestic serenity and middle-class assurance in two hit TV series, Father Knows Beast and Marcus Welby, M.D. In actuality Young was an unhappy, unsettled fellow who suffered from depression and alcoholism. In 1991, at the age of 84 or thereabouts, he tried to kill himself. And yet Young was candid about his personal issues and urged the public not to follow his example (i.e., boozing) and to seek professional help when so afflicted.

Signed, sealed, delivered — the African American community has decided that Typewriter Joe will be the Democratic presidential candidate. They’re basically saying to X-factor white liberals like myself, “The Iowa caucus isn’t until February 3rd, followed by New Hampshire, South Carolina and then Super Tuesday on March 3rd, but it’s over…it’s settled. You’re going to take Joe Biden and like him.”

I’m a Pete Buttigieg guy, but if we’re taking 60something candidates Tom Steyer would be far preferable to Biden, and if we’re talking 70-plus I’d much rather see Michael Bloomberg become the Democratic candidate. I like and admire Bernie Sanders, but I don’t believe this country is ready to put a tax-and-spend Jewish Democratic Socialist who wants the U.S. of A. to become Finland, as much as I would personally be down with that.

Either way AA voters have decided that it’s Droolin’ Joe, period. And that’s the name of that tune.

“What this new Washington Post-Ipsos poll of African Americans voters has done is confirm that my Aunt Gloria has her finger on the pulse of black America.

“At the family barbecue, I asked why she thought Biden was the person to take on Trump. Her answer left me slack-jawed and remains the best explanation for Biden’s continued strength. ‘The way the system is set up now, there is so much racism that it’s going to have to be an old white person to go after an old white person,’ Aunt Gloria said. ‘Old-school against old-school.'” — from 1.11 Jonathan Capehart column, “Joe Biden leads among black voters for a reason.”

I somehow missed this. Fairly blatant. I’m not necessarily presuming this is why Taron Egerton took the Golden Globe for Best Actor, Comedy/Musical instead of Eddie Murphy, but c’mon…