The Dylan Farrow letter “has impacted Cate Blanchett‘s campaign,” Michael Musto tells Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil in a recently posted audio discussion. “Blanchett was the biggest lock since Colin Firth when he won for The King’s Speech. [But] suddenly, it’s not cool right now to vote for Woody Allen. Do I think Blanchett will win? I do because her performance is so strong and why would you hold it against her? This has nothing to do with Cate Blanchett, but I think it’s throwing a big wrench into the whole thing. (On Oscar night) if they say the winner is not Cate Blanchett, we’re going to know why she didn’t win.”

Michael Wolff‘s 2.3 Guardian piece about the Dylan Farrow letter isn’t novel or radical, but it strikes me as the wisest and most comprehensive assessment yet of what’s really going on.

“[This] is a story of interlocking media deals and cultivated media cronies,” he concludes. “Everybody is at work here. Everybody is someone else’s instrument. Everybody is promoting something. Two decades have passed but the Allen-Farrow betrayal, break-up, and molestation charges are somehow, all of a sudden, as vivid as yesterday.

“Here’s a certainty: When you play out your personal dramas, hurt and self-interest in the media, it’s a confection. You say what you have to say in the way you have to say it to give it media currency — and that’s always far from the truth. Often, in fact, someone else says it for you. It’s all planned. It’s all rehearsed. This is craft. This is strategy. This is manipulation. This is spin.”

2013 was the biggest and boldest year for African-American themes and filmmakers in Hollywood history, hence the deserved presence of 12 Years A Slave‘s Chiwetel Ejiofor, Mandela: Long Road to Freedom‘s Idris Elba, Fruitvale Station‘s Michael B. Jordan and Slave‘s Lupita Nyong’o on the cover of Vanity Fair‘s Hollywood issue. But why include Mandela‘s Naomie Harris and 42‘s Chadwick Boseman? VF cover subjects for this annual issue are usually chosen because (a) they’re award-season contenders with serious heat or (b) are breakout types who seem likely to be players for years to come. No offense but very few conversation-starters were extra-lathered about Harris and Boseman’s performances. They may have great careers in front of them but people in my circle were not running around and saying “Naomie Harris is the next thing!” and “Chadwick Boseman killed in 42!”

Six and a half years ago I bought Criterion’s then-new DVD of Billy Wilder‘s Ace in the Hole (’51). For years I had written lovingly of this film’s flinty, hard-as-nails quality. I’ve mentioned Jan Sterling‘s “hard-boiled egg” line a couple of times. I’ve memorized Kirk Douglas‘s “eight spindly trees in front of Rockefeller Center” speech. But guess what? My main reaction to the DVD was “this is too cynical, too bitter…it overplays that aspect.” The best movies always define themselves with a precise tone and world-view, but too much cynicism kills the ghoulash. On top of which that Criterion DVD looks pretty good. I’m not persuaded that shelling out $30 bills for a Masters of Cinema Bluray (streeting on 4.28) is all that necessary. Who am I kidding? I’ll be shelling out but I won’t like myself in the morning.

For decades the Detroit auto industry was notorious for lagging behind on gas efficiency while mainlining profits from gas-guzzling SUVs. Three or four years ago Chrysler shut down the Delaware plant that made their hefty=sized Dodge Durango and Chrysler Aspen SUVs so they’ve presumably gotten into the swing of things. But it’s flat-out dishonest if not rancid for Bob “paycheck” Dylan to praise Detroit as an exemplar of “the finest” innovation and craftsmanship. “Is there anything more America than America?” he said at the beginning of Superbowl ad. How about selling out? Several native industries arguably exemplify the best aspects of American tradition and character. Detroit may be gradually changing its approach, but it’s known worldwide for having been myopic, arrogant and greedy for a long stretch of time. Why didn’t Dylan make an ad for Fender guitars? The Chrysler ad gave me the same sinking feeling I felt in ’79 when Dylan announced he was a born-again Christian. “Bob Dylan just negated 50 years of sticking it to the man in about 90 seconds,” some guy tweeted. Dylan stopped sticking it to the man in 1964.

Over the last decade or so I met and talked with Philip Seymour Hoffman maybe…I don’t know, six or seven times. Never for very long. He was amiable and easy-going enough. I took to calling him “Philly” in print because I once heard Bennett Miller call him that, and I figured what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. He always struck me as having at least a little disgust and anger about the things that educated, civilized people should be angry and disgusted about. He had a vaguely grumpy side. He clearly felt distaste for certain people and things, which of course was a good thing. (“Taste is a result of a thousand distastes” — Francois Truffaut.) But he never seemed like an addict type. I’ve known some self-destructive personalities, and I know a little something about why people allow heroin into their lives. It’s not about “pleasure” but immense relaxation. But Hoffman had so much love and talent and comfort in his life…respected, admired, top of his game. And with three kids, for God’s sake. I just don’t get it. I’m just…speechless. Hoffman had reportedly been struggling with smack. He had tried to get hold of the problem last year, obviously without lasting success. Deep down all addicts believe that brief drug vacations are worth their weight in gold because the idea of living without them seems intolerable. I know what that feeling is. When I had my vodka problem in the early to mid ’90s I used to say and write that “life would be unbearable without alcohol.” That was another life, thank God. Everyone is sad today. To hell with the Super Bowl.

The Santa Barbara Holiday Inn wifi isn’t awful but it takes hours for video clips that are longer than a minute to upload to YouTube. Way too long. Here, finally, 40 hours later, is a good taste of David O. Russell‘s rambling speaking style (or what I described yesterday morning as “a vast lake of free-associating consciousness and tap-dancing, lightning-reflex improv”) during Friday night’s interview with Santa Barbara Film Festival director Roger Durling. Two clips, the second after the jump.

During the 2003 Sundance Film Festival a producer friend was hanging with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who was doing promotion for Richard Kwietniowski‘s Owning Mahowny, a not-bad-but-not-terrific film about a self-destructive bank manager named Dan Mahowny (Hoffman) who embezzles bank money to cover his gambling debts. Hoffman and a group of five or six (including his manager and agent) went to a special Owning Mahowny party. They were ushered into an upstairs VIP area, but within a few minutes Hoffman said he found the atmosphere odd and artificial and said “let’s walk downstairs and join the real party.” They did so and were quickly ushered into another VIP area, but only Hoffman and one other were allowed past the ropes. His agent and manager were kept out. Hoffman was pissed. He said to one of the goons that “these are my friends and business representatives…and you’re telling me they aren’t allowed in? Are you crazy?” The goon said that only one plus-one was allowed per invited guest. Hoffman said “I don’t need this shit” and left the party with his homies. Some kind of producer or party organizer freaked and followed Hoffman out onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Hoffman! We’re sorry…very sorry!,” he said. “Please…it’s okay…you can bring all your friends behind the rope!” Hoffman said something along the lines of “eff you!” and kept walking. Lesson: Don’t Fuck With The Gods.

Woody Allen is preparing some kind of stern response to Dylan Farrow’s allegations that he sexually abused her at age 7, and perhaps also to the orchestrated hitjob that Mia Farrow arranged through her friend and ally Nicholas Kristof. Variety is quoting an Allen stating the following: “Mr. Allen has read the article and found it untrue and disgraceful. He will be responding very soon. At the time, a thorough investigation was conducted by court appointed independent experts. The experts concluded there was no credible evidence of molestation; that Dylan Farrow had an inability to distinguish between fantasy and reality; and that Dylan Farrow had likely been coached by her mother Mia Farrow. No charges were ever filed.”

Cate Blanchett handled last night’s tribute at the Santa Barbara Film Festival like a champ. She knows the game, knows what’s coming, doesn’t miss a trick. Sharp, classy, obviously gifted, no games or issues. Moderator Pete Hammond asked good questions, kept the gushy flattery to a minimum and concluded the on-stage discussion within a reasonable 90 minutes. Rooney Mara delivered the award presentation speech, and Blanchett’s acceptance remarks were gracious and succinct. Everyone was happy.

I fell in love with Blanchett — slightly, a little bit — during a roundtable discussion for Steven Soderbergh‘s The Good German (’06), or roughly seven years ago. Six or seven journalists around the table, Blanchett in the middle. Early on she grabbed a pencil and started drawing doodles on a notepad as she answered the questions. I saw the drawing as a kind of escape mechanism, a form of creative withdrawal. It was like something Jackson Pollock might do…loved it! I decided then and there that Blanchett was X-factor and my kind of lady. Three years later I saw her Blanche DuBois in the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire. Wow.