A 1.9 Daily Mail article by an anonymous BAFTA voter states — are you sitting down? — that “the voting process is based less on artistic merit than on a combination of coercion, trend-following and pot luck.”

“Maybe 100 films released over the past 12 months have a realistic chance of winning a BAFTA, and probably 70 to 80 of those are released in the last two months of the year,” the author says. “[And come December] you have 50 or 60 films to get through. In less than a month. With Christmas in the middle. And a deadline of January 3rd to vote for your five nominations in each category. It’s just not possible to watch them all. So which ones rise to the top of the pile? The ones you’ve already heard about. And the ones that have already started winning.

The most recent assessment of Robert Redford‘s chances in the Best Actor Oscar race has been “forget it…he refused to campaign, too proud to get out there and hustle, might not even be nominated,” etc. And he might not be. But earlier today award-season handicappers told me they’ve picked up insect antennae vibrations telling them that tomorrow night Redford might actually win the Golden Globe for Best Actor, Drama. Because…I don’t know why. Because the star-struck HFPA voters are more attracted to the idea of Redford, the ultimate glamorous movie-star of the ’70s and ’80s, being crowned on their stage than the Texas-accented, hard-charging, presumed-to-be-in-the-lead-as-we-speak Matthew McConaughey? Or…I don’t know, because Redford is more glammy than Bruce Dern? One thing you can probably count on: Unlike Dern, Redford will almost certainly not wear orthopedic comfort shoes to the Globes.

This recently posted Nebraska trailer is the first I’ve noticed that actually lays the theme of Bruce Dern‘s Best Actor campaign on the table, to wit: “Your life can have a vigorous and perhaps even triumphant final act, even if your 70s.”

I’m so far behind the curve on Zak Knutson and Joey Figueroa‘s Milius (EPIX, premiering tonight) that I’m almost having trouble writing about it. The big debut happened ten months ago at South by Southwest, but I’m not doing that festival any more. The doc has been viewable on a private Vimeo link for a while now. Did I watch it? Of course not. But two nights ago I finally caught up with this workmanlike, good-enough portrait of legendary director-screenwriter John Milius at a special invitational screening at USC’s Eileen Norris theatre complex.

The doc’s recounting of Milius’s life and career is clean, straightforward and comprehensive. We all know that Milius’s fame is related more to famous dialogue than anything else — “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” “Well, do ya feel lucky, punk?,” the title “Apocalypse Now,” etc. And the doc dutifully recounts this. That’s my only problem with Milius — it feels dutifully outside rather than inside. It doesn’t really swim in the raging rapids (as well as the serenity) of Milius’s adventures and philosophy. It just sets up the camera and comfortably points to Milius and his pals and says “See those guys? They’re talking about the rapids.” It’s a doc that says “this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened,” etc.

This Wolf of Wall Street f-bomb video is a half-decent ADD summary of the film itself. The important comparison, of course, is with the various Scarface compilations. Indiewire/The Playlist‘s Kevin Jagernauth says there are 522 fucks in Wolf; a commenter below the Scarface video claims there are 218 in that 1983 Brian DePalma film; the Wiki list says 207. Wolf is the new all-time champ, but the first runner-up surprises me — Spike Lee‘s Son of Sam.

A couple of hours ago HE tech guy Dylan Wells (a) inserted a rectangular Facebook button next to the Twitter button and (b) shifted the search bar to the left side, or just under the logo. Next August will be HE’s tenth anniversary.

A warm and extraordinary story of how a frowning, middle-aged, brillo-haired scold tried to berate kindly Walt Disney and his creative team into removing the songs and the animated penguins from Mary Poppins, and how the smiling forces of bubbly musical happiness pushed back and resisted these efforts…thank God! The frowning scold finally went home, and then three years later she invited herself to the Poppins premiere at Grauman’s Chinese. Your heart will melt, your spirit will soar.

An “ironic” American Hustle gold chain and pendant arrived today along with a soundtrack CD. A harmless little promotional nudge…fine. But what are you supposed to do with it? Certainly not wear it. Even in an ironic context ugly bling is ugly bling. There hasn’t been a lot of swag this season. Or at least none that I’ve been the recipient of. Where are the plastic bottles containing 25 or 30 fake Lemmon 714s from Paramount? That would be awesome. A great party item. Not that I want this stuff in my life. But whatever arrives, you want it to either (a) edible or (b) of some practical use or (c) aesthetically agreeable. Or a comination of all three.

Every day 25% to 35% of HE comments are smart, witty, thoughtful, etc. If there’s a dispute or a rant of some kind the authors try to express it clearly and concisely. If there’s some kind of dry, satirical thrust to an article or riff I’ve written, these people will usually get this and acknowledge same by kicking the humor around or turning the tables in some other direction. Okay, maybe 40% of responders respond this way on a good day. But over half of HE responders, I’ve noticed, tend to ignore or dismiss pretty much everything I write. Their agenda is the same no matter what — dismissals, low-rent snark, bad jokes, scolding acid baths, hellfire-and-brimstone sermons, spray piss, therapeutic counseling and other ways of taking rhetorical dumps. Pure kneejerk. I’m just taking a moment to offer sincere thanks to the minority that engages with intelligence and perception and a semblance of respect. What I do is hard to define but I know it’s not the usual usual. Blunt replies, fine. Shoot from the hip, go to town. Harshly phrased arguments, okay. But not every single thing is a fucking joke. Seriously — without sincere responders writing this daily column would be awful. Your voices are heard daily and very much appreciated.

Martin Scorsese‘s The Wolf of Wall Street “is not just the funniest [film he’s] ever made but the first in which there is an authentic daring,” writes New Republic critic David Thomson in a 1.9.14 post. “The film is so much plainer than Casino or GoodFellas; the jukebox of hits fades in and out but doesn’t insist that we guzzle on its high-octane drive. The nerve-wracked Scorsese has made not just a comedy of situation and language, of dementia and stupidity, but even a physical farce. There is a sequence where Jordan Belfort, luded to the gills, has to get home from the country club in his white sports car. It is a slapstick tour de force that deserves to stand with Jerry Lewis and Laurel & Hardy. The Wolf of Wall Street is a transforming celebration of Leonardo DiCaprio that annihilates the lofty emptiness of The Great Gatsby.”

That kicker riff right after Leo’s final howl says to the viewer “get it?” If you ask me Paramount’s marketing team is basically saying “we’re not afraid of the Academy’s Hope Holiday voters…we’re not trying to mollify or soft-peddle the content of The Wolf of Wall Street…our movie owns the crazy…the water in the face is but one aspect or manifestation of this year’s ‘I drink your milkshake!’ marketing campaign for an edgy film. We are what we are, Marty’s movie is what it is and yes, Jordan Belfort‘s life really was this manic and insane but it’s still a metaphor, man…either you get it or you don’t.”

For years the annual awards handed out by the American Cinema Editors have been called “the Eddies.” Simple enough, accepted by all. I don’t know who suggested they should be re-named the Eddie Haskell Awards, but it’s obviously a lame idea. The name Eddie Haskell, synonymous with smarmy unctuous behavior, contains no allusion to film editing and…well, it just makes no sense at all. (I’ve read that the 70 year-old Ken Osmond, who portrayed Haskell on the ’50s TV series Leave It To Beaver, has requested that the ACE board of directors drop the idea and continue to call the awards the plain old “Eddies.”)

In any event the 64th annual Eddie noms, which reflect the same group-think, consensus-driven, kiss-ass mentality that has pervaded all award-bestowing industry orgs, are as follows: Best Edited Feature Film (Dramatic): 12 Years a Slave, Captain Phillips, Gravity, Her, Saving Mr. Banks. Best Edited Feature Film (Comedy or Musical): American Hustle, August: Osage County, Inside Llewyn Davis, Nebraska, The Wolf of Wall Street. Best…I can’t do this. It’s just another aspect of the same consensus choices that everyone else has focused upon. Here’s an Awards Daily rundown.

Yes, I know — a Best Picture Oscar nominee that hasn’t been nominated for Best Editing is presumed not to have as good as chance as one that has been so nominated, etc.

All I can say is that it was a lot more fun making up stupid shit about Eddie Haskell than reciting and reprinting the facts. Becket, I’m bored.