In a 10.24 column, Variety‘s award-season columnist Kris Tapley notes that nearly 1500 new members have been invited to join the Motion Picture Academy over the last two years. The current membership is somewhere close to 8000, according to Tapley. (A 2.13.17 Gold Derby piece said the tally was 6687). Accordingly, Tapley reasons, the classic definition of a Best Picture Oscar winner is probably undergoing a sea change.

Moonlight beat La La Land, of course, because a significant number of Academy members wanted to refute the “Oscars So White” pejorative that had taken hold a year before. (This, at least, was what happened according to director Spike Lee.) This year, Tapley allows, a pair of films that would normally be relegated to film critic trophies and the Gotham/Spirit Awards — Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name and Jordan Peele‘s “bold sociological satire” Get Out — are definitely in the Best Picture Oscar mix.

And yet, Tapley observes, right now “there is no frontrunner to speak of.” In fact there are four.

There’s Chris Nolan‘s strikingly arty (no lead characters, no conventional story arcs, a sprawling God’s-eye view of warfare) but chilly Dunkirk, which has been at the top of most handicappers’ Best Picture lists since last July.

There’s Call Me By Your Name, which is the only serious “see me, feel me” movie in the Best Picture pack — a palpably emotional dream trip that really washes over and sinks in, and at the same time feels like a sun-kissed Rohmer flick.

There’s Steven Spielberg‘s The Post, which has the earmarks of being the only traditional, “important”-sounding drama aimed at the 50-plus crowd — two big boomer-aged stars (Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks), a political film with an obvious echo that applies to the press-disparaging Trump administration, a serving of journalistic realism in the tradition of Spotlight and All The President’s Men.

And there’s also Greta Gerwig‘s Lady Bird. It was the toast of Telluride, Toronto and the New York Film Festival, and it definitely works on its own personal-recollection terms — an autobiographical tale set in 2002, from a female director-writer in her mid ’30s, about a high-school senior going through trying times with her family (especially her mom) and peers. There’s no question that Lady Bird hits the bull’s-eye with excellent, heartfelt writing and acting, and it’s been shot, cut and designed to near perfection. What more can a relationship film possibly deliver?

The other contenders aren’t happening. It’s only these four, and given my previously stated concerns about two-thirds of Liz Hannah‘s screenplay for The Post being about the reluctance of Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham (Streep) to stand up against the Nixon administration and fight for the publication of the Pentagon Papers, it might only be three. Who knows?

I’ve received some private emails over the last couple of weeks about the Harvey Weinstein endorsement (“Jeff is sometimes full of passion for the uncommercial stuff”) that flashes on and off inside the HE logo. It’s been there since ’06 or thereabouts. This morning another such note arrived, this time from a guy named Steve. “I’ve been a constant reader of yours for over 15 years,” it read. “Just wondering whether it’s time for you to remove the Harvey quote from your rolling masthead.”

My reply: “Yeah, I should probably eliminate Harvey, all things considered. On a certain level I feel like a fair-weather rat leaving a sinking ship, but I’d feel like a worse rat — an inhuman one, I mean — if I kept it there. Who are we if we don’t embrace kindness, compassion and respect for each other? Thanks for nudging me about this.”

I asked HE tech guy Dominic Eardley to deep-six the Weinstein thing, and five minutes later it was done.

Sidenote: At the very end of Vincent Minnelli‘s The Bad and the Beautiful (’52) Lana Turner, Barry Sullivan and Dick Powell are listening with heightened interest to a producer they deeply despise, Kirk Douglas‘s Jonathan Shields, talk about his latest movie idea. The message rings true — sometimes vital filmmaking passion doesn’t necessarily emanate from the nicest people.

In the same light I wonder how indie cinema will fare without the “good” Harvey around to champion and aggressively sell the more artistically daring, less commercial projects. As Walter Pidgeon‘s Harry Pebbel said at the end of The Bad and the Beautiful, “You have to give the devil his due.” For all his abominable attitudes about women HW injected a shot of energy into the indie filmmaking scene that a lot of people admired and in many instances benefitted from. He’s history now and may even wind up in jail before this is over, but…well, I’ve said it.

Every now and then a one-sheet for an upcoming film captures the essence just so. A distinctive right profile of Saoirse Ronan instead of the usual straight-on mug shot. The flaming red hair dye. An expression that seems lost in thought, pondering the calculus of existence. Maybe a touch of confusion or even anger thrown into the mix. A signature image, in short, that locks in on the mood of a film by way of a fascinating lead character, and which isn’t afraid of exuding a slightly contrary vibe.

Earlier this afternoon I sat down with Ruben Ostlund, the Swedish director of The Square (Magnolia, 10.27), a brilliant art-world satire that won the Palme d’Or at the finale of last May’s Cannes Film Festival. 

I captured our 27-minute chat on iPhone and uploaded it in three sections.

If you’ve seen The Square the questions I asked Ostlund will make sense, but perhaps not if you haven’t. In my book it’s easily among 2017’s finest foreign-language films. I’m trusting that Academy members will agree and nominate it for Best Foreign Language Feature, but you can never tell with that crew.

Suffice that Ostlund’s film makes fun of the insular, politically correct museum culture that can be found worldwide, although The Square‘s focus is on a cutting-edge Stockholm art museum. 

As I wrote last May,” Ostlund’s precise and meticulous handling of The Square is exactly the kind of tonal delivery that I want from comedies. There isn’t a low moment (i.e., aimed at the animals) in all of it, whereas many if not most American comedies are almost all low moments.”

“The Square is a longish (142 minutes) but exquisitely dry Swedish satire, mostly set among the wealthy, museum-supporting class in Stockholm. It’s basically a serving of deft, just-right comic absurdity (the high points being two scenes in which refined p.c. swells are confronted with unruly social behaviors) that works because of unforced, low-key performances and restrained, well-honed dialogue.

“There are four stand-out moments: a post-coital confrontation moment between Danish actor Claes Bang and Elizabeth Moss, an interview with a visiting artist (Dominic West) interrupted by a guy with Tourette’s syndrome, the already notorious black-tie museum dinner “ape man” scene with simian-channeller Terry Notary, and a hilariously over-provocative YouTube ad showing a little girl and a kitten being blown to bits. The Square is worth the price for these four scenes alone.

Anyone over the age of five would instantly smell trouble if a stranger on a train were to offer them $75K to do anything at all. And then they’d excuse themselves and stay as far away from Vera Farmiga as possible. There are realistic, semi-believable ways of seducing innocent parties into doing bad things for money, but the scenario in this trailer is bullshit. “Strange woman offers man $75K if he’ll do a risky thing” — one of those cheap high-concept plot hooks that young screenwriters (i.e., guys who know they have to get down to the high-voltage stuff right away) pitch all the time. Directed by Jaume Collet-Serra, who directed The Shallows. You know what told me this movie is crap? When I saw that look of wifely devotion that Elizabeth McGovern offers to husband Liam Neeson as he’s about to get on the train. That settled it — game over. Lionsgate will open The Commuter on 1.12.18.

Not to cut President Donald Trump the slightest bit of slack, but we can probably assume that when he stumbled with the pronounciation of La David Johnson‘s name (as Johnson’s widow has recently claimed), it was over the first name. He probably said “David” and then checked himself with “uhhm, I mean La David” or something in that realm. I don’t know that this happened, but what are the odds that Trump stumbled with the pronunciation of “Johnson”?

Well, I experienced the same kind of stumble when I attended a party for Crown Heights last July. I was talking to a publicist about Lakeith Stanfield, and I said “Keith” only to stop mid-sentence and say “I mean LaKeith”.   I mentioned right away that the “La” (an African-American culture thing) was a relatively recent add-on as Stanfield’s Wikipage was still referring to him as “Keith.” (Not now — the spelling has since been updated.) And keep in mind that Lakeith has no space between “La” and “Keith” while Johnson’s first name is spelled “La David.” Given the recent “La” prefix add-ons and general spelling flexibility, it seems as if a little stumbling might be forgivable.

George H.W. Bush turned 93 last June. I don’t know what’s going on with the poor guy, but one look and you’re reminded of that old Bette Davis saying that “old age isn’t for sissies.” I’ve long sensed that I’ll follow in the steps of Kirk Douglas or Norman Lloyd, but remind me to take an overdose of something before I get to this stage.

Initial reaction #1: World-class actresses have always had a certain X-factor quality, an unmistakable spark of passion or depth of feeling when the camera gazed upon them. They didn’t have to be classically beautiful (i.e., Bette Davis) or boudoir sexy, but they had to have that combustible quality. I realize that all cultures are constantly evolving and that aesthetic standards change with them, but Vicky Krieps, no offense, doesn’t have that “it” quality. She just doesn’t.

Krieps strikes me as an arresting actress as far as the task of conveying complex emotions is concerned, but she clearly lacks magnetism. She reminds me in some ways of Brief Encounter‘s Celia Johnson — an emotionally relatable but spark-free actress with plain, unremarkable features. In the ’50s, or the period in which Phantom Thread occurs, Krieps might have had trouble being cast as a housemaid or shopkeeper or a barely-noticed office clerk, much less as the costar of a film about an intense, highly-charged relationship.

Key trailer quotes: “When I was a boy I would hide things in the liners of garments…things that only I knew were there….secrets.” “So why are you not married?” “May I warn you of something?” “Perhaps I’m looking for trouble.” “Stop!” “There’s an air of quiet death in this house.” “You’re not cursed, you’re loved.” “What game? What precisely is the nature of my game?” “Are you thinking of ruining my evening? And possibly my entire life?” “Stop it!” “Whatever you do, think carefully.”

Initial reaction #2: I’m not feeling the crazy in this trailer. The theme seems to be “leave this artist alone to create what he needs to create…if you fuck with his system or his behavior or obsessive work patterns, you will bring on nothing but trouble.” It seems to basically boil down to Rex Harrison‘s song of complaint and lament in My Fair Lady, “An Ordinary Man.” Key Lyric: “Let a woman in your life, and your serenity is through.”

An older, graying, work-obsessed couturier named Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day Lewis) falls for a significantly younger but plain-featured woman named Alma (Vicky Krieps), and at first everything is delightful. But as the initial passion begins to recede it becomes clear that Alma has certain feelings and convictions that clash with Reynolds’ realm. Reynolds’ sister Cyril (Lesley Manville) quietly warns Alma not to interfere with his creative process as Alma begins to reveal a dark, possibly even perverse side to her nature. What began as a love affair begins to transform into a battle of wills and passions.

Initial reaction #3: Where are the hints of Phantom Thread being a classy, upmarket Fifty Shades of Grey, as rumors have had it?

Initial reaction #4: Perhaps Paul Thomas Anderson‘s point in casting the unremarkable looking Krieps was to convey something about the sometimes curious nature of love and passion. You may not see or sense the thing that lights Reynolds Woodcock’s fire, but R.W. certainly does, and that’s all that matters as far as the watching of this film is concerned.

It’s obviously unwise at this point to express any kind of mixed feelings about anyone in the firing lines for sexual assault or harassment. The smart play is to keep your head down and STFU. You’d have to be fairly brutish to not sense the serious trauma and anguish that many women have experienced at the hands of God knows how many powerful, scruple-free jackals out there. But there are…how to put this without sounding like a pig sympathizer? Maybe no way. I should probably just zip it.

A friend noted this morning that James Toback‘s neck is now on the chopping block and asked “where’s it all going to end?” My answer: “It’s just beginning.”

My presumption is that every older, obnoxiously randy swagger-hound (i.e., particularly those who revelled as youths in the nookie heyday of the late ’60s and particularly the quaalude-fed, Sodom-and-Gomorrah-ish ’70s)…any such person who decided long ago that getting laid through the unscrupulous use of power and economic leverage was more important than adhering to basic standards of decency, kindness and compassion…many if not most of these guys are going to experience the howling of the mob and perhaps even in some cases the kiss of steel.

Most of us have lived our lives with an understanding that bad behavior results in punitive measures. This is how any civilized society discourages ugly, intolerable acts — “You fuck up, you know what.” I began to realize this when I was….what, a year old? Every time I’ve made any kind of mistake or broken any rule, the same admonishments have applied. Not cool, dude. Correct your behavior or else.

But those who’ve lived and operated within the quiet, cushioned realms of the entertainment industry have been taught a different lesson: “Within limits you can get away with a lot of stuff, especially if you’re loaded and don’t behave like an absolute animal.”

If life tells you again and again and again and again that you can skate or sidestep out of the usual consequences, after a while you’ll start to believe that you’re largely bullet-proof. It’s bad conditioning, obviously, but it happens.

43 years ago Noah Cross said to Jake Gittes, “I don’t blame myself. You see, Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they’re capable of anything.”

Another thing no one has mentioned: the film-culture guys who’ve been accused of sexual assault or harassment so far (Devin Faraci, Cinefamily’s Shadie Elnashai and Hadrian Belove, Harry Knowles, Harvey Weinstein, et. al.) have not been blessed with matinee-idol looks.

Handsome or otherwise presentable smoothies in the tradition of Brad Pitt, Montgomery Clift, Cary Grant, Warren Beatty, George Clooney or Gregory Peck along with God knows how many hundreds of thousands of marginally appealing guys have never, to go by most accounts, had to resort to unsavory means of persuasion. Largely, one presumes, because they had the pick of the litter but also because life and circumstance taught them to be well-mannered and respect others. Would that this were true for all men.

This Banksy-like figure, nicely painted in a delicate, ghostly, air-brushed style, is on a wall adjacent to the big Rite-Aid parking lot at the southwest corner of Fairfax and Sunset. I was pulling out yesterday on the bike and happened to notice it. Whoever painted this certainly isn’t trying to snag a lot of attention. It’s way off to the side and smaller than life. If it’s not a real Banksy it’s a pretty good imitation.