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I decided this morning that Jessica Chastain‘s snapdragon performance in J.C. Chandor‘s A Most Violent Year (mafia daughter first, loyal bookkeeping wife of Oscar Isaac second) has to be highly ranked among Best Supporting Actress contenders. Right under Birdman‘s Emma Stone, I’m thinking. Mainly because we like snapdragons! But also because a vote for Chastain’s Violent performance will be regarded as a vote against the strong-arm tactics by Interstellar producers when they contractually prevented her from promoting A Most Violent Year or her performance in it. She’s fine in Interstellar, of course, but her acting in Chandor’s film is two or three times richer and tastier; ditto the role itself. There’s really no question about this.

I’ve come to a semi-profound realization about Los Angeles, one connected to my longstanding irritation with this bleached-out burg, and, correspondingly, why so many people say they love it when the nighttime energy manifests but are always inside during work hours. And it’s fairly basic. For there to be occasional serenity in anyone’s life outside their doors and dreams and meditations, there has to be some approximation of that easy feeling that comes from natural tree cover and respite from the sun’s glare. I never met a leaf I didn’t like, but Los Angeles has never been much for that.

My favorite cafe along rue Caulaincourt in Montmartre, obviously during the summer months.

Okay, you can obviously get some shade therapy here, but there’s little to be had outside of Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Bel Air, Hancock Park and upper Santa Monica. You basically need to be loaded or to placate yourself with visits to Griffith Park or Franklin Canyon.

Except, of course, when the sun does down, which is when everyone’s attitude suddenly changes and L.A. becomes a certain pulsing, splendorous, heat-of-the-night thing, which anyone with any kind of appreciation for perverse, off-kilter beauty has been seeing for decades.

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This afternoon I enjoyed nice easy chats with Al Pacino and Greta Gerwig, the leads of Barry Levinson‘s The Humbling (Millennium, 1.15.15), which had its first peek-out in Toronto. There’s no point in claiming it was 100% praised, but for me there’s an amusing easy-chair quality about The Humbling. It’s a mildly perverse thing, shot in and around Levinson’s home in Redding and other Fairfield County environs (where I hail from). For my money Pacino’s Simon Axler, an aging, louche, has-been actor, is worth the price — Al really knows from jaded aplomb. And I enjoyed the combustible, tilt-angle relationship that occurs between him and Gerwig’s Pegeen Stapleford, a lesbian who decides to have a whirl at a heterosexual dalliance when Pacino rolls into the room, partly because she had a crush on him when young.

Pacino and I lasted 24 minutes, and then I did 18 with Greta. I asked Pacino to confirm that autograph story that Peter Rainer shared the other night; turns out Rainer told it just right. I also asked Pacino who does the best Tony Montana impression he’s ever seen, and he said Johnny Depp.

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I didn’t see this Midnight Rider tragedy train video when it popped about ten days ago. It appears that a description of the accident provided by hair stylist Joyce Gilliard to The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Johnson in a 3.4.14 article was inaccurate. The video shows that the edge of the Altamaha river was a good distance from the point of impact. Gilliard’s experience as related by Johnson: “With the train howling past just inches behind her, Gilliard threw herself onto two metal wires that stretched between the girders and along the gangplank, thrust her head out over the river below” –not! — “and shut her eyes.” There goes my Butch-and-Sundance theory, but I’ll tell you what I would have done if I’d been under that trestle and had suddenly seen that train coming. I would have teamed with another crew person and thrown that bed over the side like that.

As I said on 11.9 (“Over The Hump“), I’ve let the whole Interstellar thing go, particularly my soupy/bassy sound obsession. But I can’t ignore this photo sent yesterday by the Rochester-based Jay Shooke. Several 8 x 11 sheets with this message were “taped up all over at [Rochester’s] Cinemark Tinseltown IMAX,” he says, obviously in response to complaints.

“In contrast with such lovable loafs as Seth Rogen and Danny McBride, who have supplanted him as cinema’s man-children du jour, [Jim] Carrey’s comic instincts still tend toward the sinister, and many of this film’s jokes live or die depending on which side of the cruel-clever divide they fall.” — from Andrew Barker‘s Variety review of Dumb and Dumber 2. Barker is not just observing but half-agreeing that “lovable oaf” humor is preferable or more digestible than “sinister” humor, which tends to mean social-criticism humor with bite. Humor without a point, in other words, is more inviting or worthwhile than humor with a point. I’ve posted this Michael O’Donoghue quote 28 or 29 times since this column began, but Barker needs to read it: “Making people laugh is the lowest form of humor.”

I screwed up the mp3 link to my recent interview with The Babadook director Jennifer Kent. Profuse apologies. This should work.

In this scene from J.C. Chandor‘s A Most Violent Year, David Oyelowo alludes to Jessica Chastain‘s mobbed-up dad, who’s in prison the whole time and is never seen but is very much a presence in the film. Mob guys on the inside are always talking to guys on the outside, of course, and if they want someone hurt or fucked with, it tends to happen. Oyelowo is playing it cool and acting like it’s water off a duck’s ass, but he knows this. A Most Violent Year is one of the year’s finest films, no question. Right up there with Birdman, Gone Girl, Boyhood, Whiplash, Nightcrawler, The Drop, Locke, etc. More commanding, better written and more finely-tuned than The Gambler, Selma or American Sniper — easily the biggest push-through of 2014 AFI Fest. Sorry, dawg, but whaddaya want me to do…lie?

I’m sorry but I don’t see the downside in posting Papermag‘s ass photos of Kim Kardashian if I throw in a nice Russell Brand rant. That way I get the numbers without looking like a click whore. It makes me seem more principled. In and of itself I’ve always found KK’s bum disproportionately large and not all that inviting. A bit freakish. Ample-ness is fine but there are limits, I feel, to “more than a handful.” Brand, the star of Ondi Timoner‘s Sundance 2015 documentary Brand ( which was partly shot by HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko), has this.

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I have to fly up to the Napa Valley Film Festival today. Notice the use of “I have to fly” as opposed to “I’m flying,” which implies duress. Why am I going? One, because I enjoy spending money on Burbank-to-Oakland air fare, cat care fees, parking fees, a three-day car rental, a tank of gas, random meals and odd incidentals. Two, because I’ll almost certainly have a pleasant time (great food, fresh air, nice people, bountiful scenery). Three, because I’m a full-on admirer of Mike Binder and Kevin Costner‘s Black and White, which is getting the NVFF champagne treatment this evening.

4 pm update: I’ve regretfully bailed on the whole thing. Profuse apologies to all concerned. I kept missing flights and forgetting to do certain things and then it all collapsed into a heap when I got to Burbank Airport and realized I’d left my temporary driver’s license at home, which of course meant no car rental. At that moment I just imperceptibly slumped. On top of which Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone cancelled also.

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Ava DuVernay‘s Selma, which had its first hotshot media screening last night at 6 pm, is a better-than-decent drama in…well, some respects. It has human-scale currents (compassion, moral vision, racism, cowardice, bureaucratic cynicism and brutality). DuVernay does a fair-to-decent job of re-creating the fire and the pain of the Alabama voting-rights protests of 1965, although I’m more of a fan of the “Bridge to Freedom” segment in Eyes on the Prize, the PBS doc that first aired in ’87, than I am of Selma. And yes, David Oyelowo does a reasonably good job of bringing Martin Luther King back to life, although I have to say he doesn’t quite capture King’s wonderfully melodious voice or the soaring oratorical spirit of his speeches.

Last night’s response tells us Selma is going to get lots of knee-jerk love from journalists and politically-correct lefties who swooned over Lee Daniels’ The Butler (a decent, so-so film) and 12 Years A Slave (a masterpiece) because their socially progressive instincts told them to. Selma, after all, is about the struggle by the Rev. King and his followers to demonstrate in racist Alabama for voting rights — a hard, punishing crusade that ultimately led to President Lyndon Johnson pushing for and then signing the Voting Rights Act in August 1965. If you can’t stand up for a film like this then where is your liberal soul?

So this is a good story about a noble and courageous effort, and so to pan this film, which was produced by Oprah Winfrey and Brad Pitt‘s Plan B productions, or to complain about parts of it, is not cool. Who wants to stand outside the circle of liberal camaraderie as far as this film is concerned? Not me, brother. It’s easier to get with the program, applaud each other for being generous of heart and enlightened enough to look past Selma‘s shortcomings and celebrate its social-historical virtues, which are genuine and tangible.

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