Will Scott Feinberg’s 2.16 scoop about plans for Bonnie and Clyde costars Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway to co-present the Best Picture Oscar result in a fuck-you pushback? “Several sources say Oscar telecast producers Michael DeLuca and Jennifer Todd [have] personally reached out to the duo to present the award” as a tribute to the 50th anniversary of Bonnie and Clyde, Feinberg writes. “Plans could change,” he adds, “but sources say the Oscars run of show is being finalized this week.”

If you know anything about the guarded, occasionally prickly attitude of entrenched Hollywood producers toward trade journalists, you may suspect that Deluca and Todd are thinking about finding replacements for Beatty and Dunaway as we speak.

I’m thinking in particular of Lyndon Johnson‘s reaction to Ben Bradlee‘s May 1964 Newsweek story about his intention to replace FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. (The source was impeccable — LBJ’s press secretary Bill Moyers.) Right after the story broke Johnson called a press conference and announced that he was putting Hoover in charge of the agency “for life”. He then turned to Moyers and said, “Call Bradlee and tell him to go fuck himself.”

The 2017 Sundance and Santa Barbara film festivals are history, the Spirits and the Oscars are less than two weeks away and all but concluded in the minds of most, and I for one am ready to jump into the 2017 batting cage and start swinging. But not until the next three weekends are past us. Okay, one or two might pass muster. This Friday’s (2.17) top openers are Gore Verbinski‘s A Cure For Wellness (already dismissed as a shortfaller) and Zhang Yimou‘s The Great Wall (Chinese monster epic, Matt Damon)…nothing. The 2.24 toppers are Eran Creevy‘s Collide (blah) and Jordan Peele‘s Get Out….wait, this might be something. The three big openers on 2.28 are Ry Russo Young‘s Before I Fall, James Mangold‘s Logan (might be decent) and Stuart Hazeldine‘s The Shack (faith movie with HE’s own Octavia Spencer as God). As far as I’m concerned the first two rip-snorters are opening on 3.10 — Jordan Vogt-Roberts‘ Kong: Skull Island and Oliver Assayas‘ Personal Shopper. Don’t listen to the naysayers — anyone who dismisses this film needs to refresh their browser and/or upload new software. Here’s my coverage going back to last May’s Cannes Film Festival.

In the latest Gurus of Gold chart, seven industry pulse-takers — Vox‘s Greg Ellwood, Today‘s Dave Karger, L.A. Times critic Mark Olsen, MCN’s David Poland, Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone, Susan Wloszczyna (ala Suzie Woz) and L.A. Times staffer Glenn Whipp — are predicting a Best Actor Oscar win by Fences‘ Denzel Washington with only four — Toronto Star critic Peter Howell, TheWrap‘s Steve Pond, The Film Experience‘s Nathaniel R and Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson — sticking by longtime frontrunner Casey Affleck, who gives the performance of his career in Manchester By The Sea.

The Denzel surge is about the SAG win, of course, but two things have happened since to alter the chemistry — i.e., Affleck winning the BAFTA Best Actor trophy and Deadline‘s Mike Fleming running an in-depth, highly flattering making-of-Manchester piece.

Yes, there’s a perception of a horse race here and I’m not saying it’s settled, but I am saying that the Denzel surge happened two weeks ago and has since receded.

A year or so ago I posted the following about Love, the quirky Netflix romcom series created by Judd Apatow, Lesley Arfin and Paul Rust, and starring Gillian Jacobs, Rust, and Claudia O’Doherty. A new 12-episode second season will debut on 3.10. My earlier riff was basically about the fact that even by the laws of the Apatow realm (i.e., guys who were too schlubby or dweeby-looking to be cast as hapless best friends in the ’80s or ’90s are now playing leads who get the girl), Rust is too Eddie Deezen-ish to land Jacobs as a girlfriend:

“The writing on Love is obviously first-rate (genuine, unforced, not too cute) and the acting seems fine…okay, pretty good. Everything seems right and harmonious except for one small element. In real life Paul Rust would be too dorky-looking to attract someone as hot as Gillian Jacobs. She looks like Kathryn Harrold, for God’s sake, and Harrold was a little too hot even for Albert Brooks in Modern Romance.

“Girls like Jacobs know what they have and the kind of guy they can land with a little luck and connivance. If Rust was lucky enough to pair up with Jacobs in real life it would be one of those odd relationships in which both parties realize that she’s doing him a huge favor. These always end sooner or later because the guy starts to feel diminished because he doesn’t feel he has any sense of equality; he feels like a waiter who’s been given an astonishing tip.

“These things also end because it’s always just a matter of time before she decides ‘okay, he’s cool and a good soul and not a bad lover, but that beak! Plus he’s neurotic and bothersome in about 17 or 18 different ways, and I know I could do better if I get out there and start sniffing around.’

Snctm is an upscale, laid-back orgy thing with tuxedoes and masks a la Eyes Wide Shut. The after-the-jump video reminded me of Manhattan’s HellFire Club, which I visited twice in ’80 or ’81, both times accompanied by Swedish dominatrix Eva Norvind and once by a publicist friend. Located at 9th Avenue and 14th Street when the meatpacking district was a rawer, more challenging environment, it was a sex club that a lot of people attended just to watch. Some gay action but mostly straight, and more particularly couples performing BDSM routines. I can remember nursing a Jack Daniels and ginger ale as I watched a guy and a girl “so entwined” (as Dylan once put it) on a slightly raised wooden platform behind the bar, lying on a mattress and doing the old gymnastic whambam. The Hellfire Club was run by a BDSM enthusiast named Lenny Waller. The original 19th Century Hellfire Clubs of England and Ireland were exclusive hangs for high society rakes — i.e., “persons of quality” — who wished to take part in socially perceived immoral acts…the clubs were rumored to have distant ties to an elite society known as The Order of the Second Circle.”

Even without the recent flare-up of the Trump Muslim ban and the natural, humanist instinct to respond to that, Asghar Farhadi‘s The Salesman should be — is — the clear favorite among the Best Foreign Language feature nominees. Farhadi can’t help but exude brilliance, such that even a respectably midrange effort like The Salesman (which, despite its admirably unhurried pacing, subtle plot turns and fascinating social undercurrents, isn’t quite the equal of A Separation or The Past) is clearly superior to the other four nominees — Toni Erdmann, Land of Mine, A Man Called Ove, Tanna. On top of which we have had the attempted Muslim travel ban (thankfully neutered by the courts), and…well, what other choice in the wake of that?

“More often than not, we’d be disappointed. It wasn’t the film we dreamed of. It wasn’t the perfect film we each had inside of us. The film we would like to have made. Or, undoubtedly, the film we would have wanted to live.” — an apparent quote from a Godard film that I can’t identify but nonetheless included in “The Empty Screen,” a video essay posted on 2.6.17 by Talkhouse.com‘s Mark Rappaport. Be honest — who has ever wanted to live inside a CG-driven bullshit comic-book fantasy flick? I’ve seen hundreds of films that I would gladly step into and merge with a la The Purple Rose of Cairo, but not once have I ever said “wow…what a beautiful thing it would be to step into a fucking Marvel movie and live in it…not once.”

The Trump administration is 28 days old, and already I’m feeling those old expanding/exploding Watergate scandal vibes. Everyone’s blood is up, the sharks are circling…I’m feeling happy again. Especially with the Trump-Russia mishegoss compounded by evidence showing that the FBI suppressed Russian intel while Comey torpedoed Hillary by reigniting the bogus email thing at the last minute. We’re looking right now at strong indications of secretive treasonous collusion with a hostile government run by an Al Capone-like gangster who ices his opponents. Plus a possible pee-pee tape! It’s a Tom Clancy novel, and it’s just starting to heat up.

Here’s a reasonably decent National essay about the effect of political comedy on the Washington establishment over the last half-century or so, and more particularly the intersection of comedy, reliable information and rightwing fake news. Nothing startling but a decent summary. The commentator is University of Delaware communications professor Dannagal Young, who performs monthly with a Philadelphia-based improv troupe in addition to her academic tasks.

From Meryl Streep’s Human Rights Campaign award-acceptance speech, delivered last Saturday evening: “Human life has been organized in a certain way, the hierarchies set, who’s in charge, who makes the laws and who enforces them, pretty much the same way for, oh, about 40,000 years. [And then] suddenly, at one point in the 20th century, something changed. Women began to be regarded as, if not equal, at least deserving of equal rights. Men and women of color demanded their equal rights. People of sexual orientation and gender identification outside the status quo also demanded equal regard under the law. [So] we should not be surprised that fundamentalists, of every stripe, are exercised and fuming. We should not be surprised that these profound changes come at a steeper cost than we originally thought.”