Invitations went out this morning for NY and LA press screenings of Quentin Tarantino‘s The Hateful Eight. Reviews are embargoed until 12.21. All screenings will present the slightly longer Ultra Panavision 70 version, which will run 175 minutes with a 12-minute intermission for a grand total of 187 minutes. I’ll be expecting, of course, an overture and an entr’acte musical passage between the two parts.

If you’re one of those impassioned, laser-focused, well-dressed media types you’ll almost certainly be driving towards the Academy’s Samuel Goldwyn theatre tonight around 7 pm or so. Because the show starts at 8 pm and you’ll want a good seat. “Something familiar, something peculiar, something for everyone…The Revenant tonight! Something appealing, something appalling, something for everyone…The Revenant tonight! Old situations, new complications,nothing portentous or polite…The Revenant tonight!” — from Stephen Sondheim‘s “The Revenant Tonight” from A Funny Thing Happened on The Way to the Forum.

Looking forward to re-watching every one of these on the 60-inch Samsung with the sound as full and crisp as I choose. Especially 45 Years (I’m fairly certain Charlotte Rampling is going to score with critics groups as a Best Actress recipient) and Son of Saul.

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It’s a plain, straight fact that Cary Fukunaga‘s Beasts of No Nation is a piece of devastating, world-class art — undeniably alive and probing and humanistic, a film about conscience and savagery and moral choice. It goes without saying that such a film requires award-season acclaim, and that denying it this will be some kind of perverse. But from the moment Beasts opened simultaneously on Netflix and in a relative handful of upmarket theatres on 10.16, three things have become apparent, and it almost takes a degree in marketing to figure out the whole equation.

One, a consensus has developed among film Catholics that despite its difficult subject matter (i.e., African child soldiers conscripted and goaded into committing atrocities during a civil war) Beasts is nothing short of a jolting, half-hallucinatory masterpiece — a 21st Century Apocalypse Now by a director with a momentous career ahead of him. It’s one of the few noteworthy films of 2015 to be spoken of in genuinely worshipful terms. For a few weeks now people like Jake Gyllenhaal, Ben Affleck and Sally Field have been hosting screenings and more or less dropping to their knees. Robert Downey, Jr. is also a fan. Many people are.

Two, some exhibitors (i.e., AMC Cinemas, Carmike Cinemas, Cinemark, Regal) have turned their backs over the day-and-date thing, and some Academy members have said in recent party-chat conversations that Beasts needs to be disciplined (i.e., not voted for) for the same reason, despite the fact that the quality of it demands attention at the very least, and the fact that Netflix is simply perched at the forefront of emerging release patterns.

And three, as was the case with Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave, winner of the 2013 Best Picture Oscar, some people just won’t see it. Some women, I’ve heard, just don’t want to watch a young boy (i.e., Abraham Attah‘s Agu) commit horrendous acts and in so doing lose his humanity. (Then again if they saw Beasts they’d know that Agu not only escapes his wartime servitude near the end but confesses his sins in a plea for redemption.) But all serious film lovers understand that when a film is said to be really and truly exceptional, you have to put aside your concerns and just submit. You have to let it in.

Maureen Dowd‘s 11.20 N.Y. Times Magazine piece about Hollywood boy’s-club sexism, which I finally got around to reading on today’s Miami-to-Los Angeles flight, is well written, heavily researched (Dowd interviewed and wrote for nearly six months) and very persuasive. It airs basic truths for the most part. As you might expect the piece re-emphasizes and summarizes the basic complaint about old-school dick attitudes making things difficult (in varying degrees) for women in the film and TV industry. Which of course is true. Ask any fair-minded woman who works in any professional capacity in this town…please.

Dowd has spoken to over 30 female directors, producers and execs, and the gist, boiled down, is that women directors are (a) put through tough hoops and get treated a certain way, (b) can be thrown into movie jail for a single failure whereas male directors always seem to have a couple of “get out of jail” cards in their back pocket, (c) are regarded as not being as well suited to playing the role of the proverbial take-charge generalissimo on a movie set as guy directors seem to be, (d) are suspiciously regarded as theoretically or potentially indecisive or ditzy, (e) are indifferent or hostile to conventional male-gaze fantasies, and (f) aren’t nearly as favored as young baseball-cap-wearing directors like Colin Trevorrow (Jurassic World, Star Wars: Episode 9).

The best Dowd quote is from an interview she did two days ago (11.20) on CBS This Morning, to wit: “The amazing thing is, I’ve covered Saudi Arabia and I’ve covered the Catholic church, and in both cases these societies got warped. They got sick because they’re not using the brains…of women. And who knew that the same thing could happen in the most liberal town on earth?”

I could throw out minor nitpicks here and there, but there’s one blatantly false claim made about Elaine May‘s experience directing Ishtar that Dowd, I feel, should have at least qualified if not challenged. The quote comes from director Leslye Headland (Sleeping With Other People, Bachelorette), to wit: “‘These dudes, man. Spielberg and Cassavetes and Woody Allen have all made some unwatchable movies. But it’s Elaine May and Ishtar you remember. It’s not Elaine May’s fault. Poor Elaine.’”

American #287 (Miami to Los Angeles) is finally preparing to leave after a 45-minute delay caused by a rain puddle.   (That’s what they said.). And I can’t tap out two or three stories during the five-hour flight because the plane — a nice, newish-feeling 767 — has no onboard wifi. Thanks very much, American! Landing around 5:30 pm Pacific.  Update:  It’s 5:55 pm. Arrived LAX around 15 minutes ago.  Torture.  Okay, not really as I spent most of the flight submerged in that “great public bath, that vat, that spa, that regional physiotherapy tank, that White Sulphur Springs, that Marienbad, that Ganges, that River Jordan for a million souls” that is the Sunday New York Times. (Passage stolen from the opening of Tom Wolfe‘s “The Painted Word.”)

“…won’t be back for many a day…my heart is down, my head is turnin’ round, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town.” It’s raining cats and dogs in Miami now, and somehow this simple, refreshing meteorological event has caused a delay in the departure of my American flight back to Los Angeles. I hadn’t been to the Miami area since the late ’80s before my just-concluded visit to the Key West Film Festival. I’d forgotten how warm and moist and soothing the tropical air can feel, and how transporting some of the aromas are. I’m essentially saying that nature has a stronger presence down here.   I’m thinking I need to visit Cuba sometime soon. Perhaps the rapidly-approaching Havana Film Festival (12.3 to 12.15)?   Three days ago I met a documentarian who said he’s been to Cuba a few times and knows several people in the Havana film community…maybe.

A beach party was held under the palm trees prior to last night’s Key West Film Festival awards ceremony.

People need to treasure each and every time they get to walk on a tarmac before or after a flight. Because it’s one of those alive-on-the-planet experiences that rarely happen these days.

I just had one of the most relaxing naps of the whole Key West trip on the floor at Miami International Airport, next to gate D44. I prepared my bedding (black leather computer bag, canvas KWFF bag), laid down and caught a full hour’s worth of zees, and felt pretty great after waking. Sometimes the simplest things can turn your day around.

With a final day (i.e., today) remaining in its schedule, the fourth annual Key West Film Festival handed out awards last night to filmmakers and name-brand auteurs at the Casa Marina, the Waldorf Astoria hotel on the beach. Producer-director and former Miamian Brett Ratner, benefactor of the festival’s Florida Film Student Showcase, took a bow and handed out four or five trophies. (At a pre-event beach party Ratner sidestepped questions about Warren Beatty‘s Howard Hughes film, which he’s a producer of, except to say it would be out in 2016.) Honoree and current Washington Post exec editor Marty Baron, the quiet-spoken leader of the Boston Globe‘s predator-priest investigation who is well portrayed by Liev Schreiber in Spotlight, spoke about the value of vigilant shoe-leather journalism. Directors Paul Verhoeven and Amy Berg (whose Janis: Little Girl Blue played at the festival) took bows, as did festival founder & chairman Brooke Christian and KWFF director of programming Michael Tuckman. Hollywood Elsewhere once again thanks KWFF for a rich and nourishing visit, and looks forward to returning. This is a classy, very well-run festival run by good people who “get it.” (Apologies for the substandard photos — I should have left my seat and gotten closer.)

Janis: Little Girl Blue director Amy Berg onstage during last night’s KWFF award ceremony.

Producer-director Brett Ratner, benefactor of the festival’s Florida Film Student Showcase.

Hollywood filmmakers are learning not to mess with LGBT activists, particularly the transgender wing. Ben Stiller‘s Zoolander 2 is being media-slapped as we speak over what some LGBTs regard as a demeaning satire of a possibly transgender guy, played by Benedict Cumberbatch. The trouble started when Cumberbatch’s character, a model named All (as in “all in”), appeared in a recently-popped trailer for the 2.12.16 Paramount release. A petition against the film has reportedly gathered 5800 signatures. The petition, apparently penned by activist Sarah Rose, claims that Cumberbatch’s character “is clearly portrayed as an over-the-top, cartoonish mockery of androgyne/trans/non-binary individuals. This is the modern equivalent of using blackface to represent a minority. The last thing the transgender community needs at this moment is another harmful, cartoonish portrayal of our lives.” Question #1: apparently LGBT is a dated acronym as the newbie is LGBTQ — lesbian gay bisexual transgender queer. I don’t mean to sound like a clueless asshole but what’s the difference between gay and queer again? Question #2: To the best of my knowledge minstrel-show actors wore blackface not to demeaningly simulate the appearance of “a minority” but precisely and intentionally to demean African-Americans…right?

HE Best Picture Dream Picks (i.e., in this order & to hell with tea-leaf-reading predictions with The Revenant and Joy put aside for the time being): Spotlight, Mad Max: Fury Road, Brooklyn, Beasts of No Nation, Love & Mercy, Son of Saul, Carol, Everest, The Martian, Asghar Farhadi‘s About Elly, the last 25 minutes of The Walk.

HE Hardball Best Picture Predictions (obviously without having seen The Revenant and Joy): Spotlight, The Revenant (because I can feel it), Joy (ditto), The Martian (popcorn), Room, Brooklyn, Carol. Mystifying Add-Ons: Bridge of Spies, Steve Jobs.

Variety‘s Gordon Cox has reported about yesterday’s visit to the Paley Center for Media by Sony honcho Tom Rothman. It contains three sage observations:

Quote #1: “The myth that movies are redeemed in ancillary markets is really not true. If they ignore it in the theater, they’re going to ignore it later. You’re dead, and then you’re deader.”

Quote #2: Rothman noted that “back when he was running production at 20th Century Fox, the ultimate risk inherent in James Cameron’s Avatar wasn’t the 3D or the blue-skinned characters with tails or any of the other things people fretted over. ‘The risk in Avatar was it was original,’ Rothman said. ‘It wasn’t based on anything with a core fan base.'” In other words, it was execution-dependent — said to be easily the most horrific term in the vocabulary of a 21st Century production executive.

Quote #3: “We made a film this fall, one of the films I’m most proud of in my career, a film that Robert Zemeckis made called The Walk. Got incredible reviews, it was incredibly experiential, it opened the New York Film Festival. And nobody alive gave a fuck.” Correction: the easy-lay crowd gave it a mixed-positive pass, but discerning critics thought it mostly sucked…except for the final 25 minutes, which were pretty great.

Last night I re-watched a good portion of Paul Verhoeven‘s Showgirls at the Key West Theatre & Community Stage. Adam Nayman’s revisionist book about this reviled cult film (which was selling at the KWTCS and at Key West Island Books) tries to resurrect the rep a la F.X. Feeney going to bat for Heaven’s Gate, but Showgirls is just as ghastly and indigestible as it seemed 20 years ago. Almost every line offends in some way, and some of the performances (like Kyle MacLachlan‘s) are somewhere between comically and demonically awful. But I love Verhoeven — easily one of the most likable and charming directors I’ve ever spoken with or listened to. (My first chat with him happened at a party in Cannes in ’92.) Hayman and Verhoeven did a 30-minute q & a following the screening, and everyone went home in a good mood. Verhoeven’s favorite memory: the audience anticipating en masse Peter Weller‘s response at the end of Robocop when the corporate chief says “nice shootin’, son….what’s your name?”

Critic-author Adam Nayman, director Paul Verhoeven following last night’s KWFF screening of Showgirls.

Key West Marina — Saturday, 11.21, 8:20 am.

It was so peaceful this morning inside Harpoon Harry’s around 7:20 am, when I strolled in for an omelette du fromage and some fruit. And then right around 8 am, the short and sandal-wearing tourist mob came in…chatter-chatter-chatter-yakkety-yakkety-yakkety-yak.

I’ll be hitting Pepe’s tomorrow morning…maybe. Come to think of it, maybe not because it doesn’t open until 8 am and you know what that means.