Can you imagine how hot it would be if a digitally reanimated Marlene Dietrich and Gene Tierney could somehow be cloned into playing Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara‘s roles, respectively, in Todd Haynes‘ Carol? No complaints about Blanchett-Mara whatsoever, but I felt a slight hormonal surge when I saw this side-by-side of Dietrich and Tierney on Twitter the other day. What other old-Hollywood actresses could have played these roles if they were somehow time=travelled into the present? Katharine Hepburn as Carol and Rita Hayworth as Therese Belivet? Dietrich and Elizabeth Taylor as she was in the early to mid ’50s? Mid-50s Susan Hayward as Carol and Shirley MacLaine as Therese?

Every now and then I’ll ask a critic or entertainment journalist about a film they’ve just seen that I haven’t gotten around to, and sometimes I’ll ask “what aspect ratio was it in? Academy 1.85 or 2.39 Scope?” And with the exception of hardcore guys like Todd McCarthy, Kent Jones, Scott Foundas or Justin Chang 85% of the time the answer will be “uhhm, I didn’t notice.” And these are professionals — people who really should know their aspect ratios and should, you know, have a little respect for what the d.p. intended. One presumes that the percentage of average ticket buyers who notice a given a.r. is even lower. It follows that even fewer Average Joes are going to notice that The Hateful Eight‘s Ultra Panavsion 70 a.r. of 2.76:1, as the difference between 2.39 and 2.76 is not exactly glaring if you’re just slumping in your seat with your legs spread-eagled with the large popcorn and the 32-ounce drink. Probably less than 5%. People don’t care much about image aesthetics as a rule. I honestly believe they don’t pay attention to this stuff any more than cows in a field will notice the difference between bright sunlight at midday and how it turns soft and golden just before dusk.

Robert Richardson (shades, white beard) and Gregor Tavenner during filming of The Hateful Eight.

The headline quote is spoken at a crucial moment in True Romance by Boris (Eric Allan Kramer), a blonde, heavyset security guy who works for producer Lee Donowitz (Saul Rubinek), a bearded smoothie who was more or less modelled (except for the cocaine-buying part) on producer Joel Silver.

The line, of course, is from Quentin Tarantino, who wrote his True Romance screenplay when he was poor and scrambling and always fearful, he’s said in interviews, that L.A. cops would pull him over for unpaid parking or traffic tickets. In ’08 Tarantino apparently told Maxim writer Marc Spitz in a piece called “True Romance: 15 Years Later” that his screenplay, made into a highly flavorful film by Tony Scott in ’93, was his “most autobiographical to date.”

No, of course I’m not going there. Obviously “I hate fuckin’ cops” is a tough-guy line for a movie, blurted out just before a shoot-out, and not any kind of basic-attitude, real-world statement on QT’s part. On top of which Quentin wasn’t Boris — he was Clarence Worley (played by Christian Slater).

But let’s be honest — tapping into emotional undercurrents and sometimes unsettling memories are part of the writing process. And Tarantino, I’m sure, remembers his own. He said last night on Real Time With Bill Maher that since the cop boycott brouhaha he’s been been feeling a bit fearful of cops again, looking in his rearview mirror the way he used to back in the ’70s and ’80s.

Do I suspect that on some deep-down level Tarantino was channelling his long-put-aside cops paranoia when he made his speech in New York a couple of weekends ago? Maybe a little teeny-weeny bit.

I found a place in my head for By The Sea (Universal, 11.13). I know what this kind of low-key, vaguely depressing, damaged-relationship film is supposed to do so I was prepared. And if you know this also and can just settle in and let it unfold at its own pace…it’s somewhere between mildly okay and a little better than that.

Yes, you would be correct in assuming it’s not the equal of Michelangelo Antonioni‘s La Notte (’62) but it’s close enough — a sophisticated middle-aged glumathon, a marriage coming apart, alcohol and cigarettes, the whiff of infidelity, the husband having trouble writing like he used to. It’s certainly coming from the same downish, semi-lethargic European art-film ballpark. Quiet, intimate, slowish and yet, after a fashion, disciplined. If you can roll with this kind of mood trip, By The Sea isn’t half bad. Really.  It’s more than tolerable.

Plus it has a nice erotic vibe that develops during the second half. A nice bathtub sex scene at the two-thirds mark. Plus Angelina’s bathroom boobies pop through two or three times. And it’s fascinating to just watch these two play off each other like grown-up, disappointed, starting-to-look-older human beings without the Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit. Plus Brad and Angie speak French-with-subtitles a third of the time. It should also be noted that false eyelashes are a significant part of Angie’s performance, at least during the first half.

And despite the depressive, lying-around-and-doing-next-to-nothing-except-drinking-and-smoking-and-and-staring-at-the-sea atmosphere, By The Sea does manage to evolve. Once the Act One lethargy has had its say, Act Two turns up the heat a bit, pivots, builds and goes somewhere. Brad Pitt finally says, “No, I don’t want a fucking drink.” And then he beats the shit out of a guy who starts to unbutton his wife’s blouse. And each scene ends a little earlier than you might expect it to. That’s usually a trait of a director who knows what he/she is doing.

For 53 years the Bond films have, with variations, started out with the same half-silhouette of a lethal guy in a suit walking west inside a bobbing circle, and then he does a 90-degree pivot as he quickly swings or arcs his right arm in our direction and fires. For over half a century the extra second it takes to swing or whip around has driven me nuts. The way Mr. Lethal should have been doing it all these years is as follows: He crouches slightly, half-pivots (i.e., 45 degrees), raises his left arm in a horizontal balancing gesture and fires under the left arm without physically turning his whole bod and facing the target straight on. In short, he twists and shoots. The whole reason for the idiotic swing-around firing (which we’ve been seeing since 1962’s Dr. No) is to make certain his left arm has nothing to do with his aim or balance. Dopey. Raise it, horizontally cock it — problem solved.

In the first full-boat trailer for Star Wars: The Force Awakens, which popped two and a half weeks ago, an older woman’s voice asks Daisy Ridley “Who are you?” Ridley’s reply: “Ahmahwan.” In the new Japanese trailer, which has more footage than the U.S. version, she replies “I’m no one.” Conclusion: the sound on the Japanese trailer has better mixing than the U.S. version. Most likely the Japanese marketers heard about the “ahmahwan” bitching and re-mixed the line so it sounds like RADA English.

The thing I love about this Key Largo scene is that nothing happens but you can feel all kinds of things waiting to. Okay, one thing happens at the end when Thomas Gomez answers the phone and lies about Lionel Barrymore and Lauren Bacall‘s whereabouts, but the rest is all premonitions — that feeling in the air when rain is about to hit. Sidenote: Two years after Key Largo opened in ’48, Harry Lewis, the flashy gangster with the idiot laugh, teamed with girlfriend Marilyn Friedman to open the first Hamburger Hamlet at the corner of Sunset and Hilldale. Initial investment was $3,500. HH grew into a chain of 24 locations, and was sold in ’87 for $29.2 million. Lewis died two and a half years ago at age 93.

A few days ago I posted a riff about Will Smith being regarded in some quarters as an eccentric-orbit kind of guy, and therefore is probably looking at an uphill effort to win a Best Actor nomination for his performance as Dr. Bennet Omalu, the real-life forensic pathologist who discovered chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), in Peter Landesman‘s Concussion (Sony, 12.25). Reaction from guy who’s seen Concussion: “Uh, no. And by the way, there were only three standing ovations at Hollywood Film Awards last Sunday night — Jane Fonda, Robert De Niro and….Will Smith.” To which I responded, “I suspect they were applauding his fame and monetary success, not the man and certainly not the artist.” Concussion guy: “Not so sure. But maybe, just maybe, you should wait to see the film (it’s great) before beginning the takedown.” Me: “What takedown? I have no dog in this. Smith’s rep is his rep.”

The Hateful Eight‘s cinematography is, I really must say, remarkably handsome and very nicely lighted. One observation: When Jennifer Jason Leigh mimics the act of being hung the gesture seems way outside the historical realm of the film. I realize this is taking place in Tarantino Land, of course, and not the real Old West, but sticking your tongue out as you pretend to choke to death…that feels like something aimed at the folks in the cheap seats.

It’ll be reality-facing time tonight for Angelina Jolie‘s By The Sea (Universal, 11.13). The ’70s-style “European art film” (a description offered by a Universal guy as well as Tom Brokaw in his recently aired Today report) opens the 2015 AFI Fest at the Chinese with the screening expected to begin around…oh, figure 8 or 8:15 pm despite the official 7:30 pm screening time. Jolie recently told N.Y. Times contributor Margy Rochlin that “I know some people are going to hate it…some are going to like it…but it was important to me to feel like an artist again.” It’ll be facing a tough house, let’s face it, but I like old-fashioned European art films about crumbling marriages. Just don’t, you know, bore me — that’s all I ask. Just maintain story tension. And throw in a surprise or two. And don’t be too gloomy. Maybe throw in a little pervy sex. And be as good as the last half-hour in Richard Linklater‘s Before Midnight. And try to reanimate the spirit of Harold Pinter.