“One thing is clear in Anchorman 2, and that is the importance of ratings,” writes Star Tribune contributor Don Shelby, a TV news guy. “In an attempt to get ratings, the buffoon Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell) suggests that news is not really important, but that he could drive the ratings up by reporting interesting stories that will help take people’s minds off of the important stuff in their lives.

Thanks to Idiot Savant Online‘s John Lichman for a moderately funny, reasonably accurate tribute piece. I was terrified as I began reading it, dreading this or that form of libel or character assassination, but I began to relax when I finished the third paragraph. Whew.

No one is a more devout fan of Jules Dassin‘s Rififi than myself, but I’m always a tiny bit concerned when Criterion delivers a Bluray of a black-and-white classic. How grain-monky will it be? It’s standard policy, of course, for Criterion’s Bluray team to never “bump” anything up — they always deliver the film precisely as it looked when projected at a first-rate house on opening day. That worked out fine with their Sweet Smell of Success Bluray, but the Criterion dweebs are notoriously queer for grainstorms. And statements like “brightness and contrast levels appear to have been slightly toned down,” “there are absolutely no traces of problematic degraining corrections” and “compromising sharpening adjustments also have not been applied” (all of which appear in Dr. Svet Atanasov‘s Bluray.com review) scare the living shit out of me. I’m also concerned by his observation that “debris, cuts, scratches, flecks, and stains have been removed as best as possible.” A similar qualifier was used by the Criterion folks to describe their notoriously awful Bluray of Stagecoach. It sounds as if the Rififi Bluray might be sullied with a few scratches, flecks and stains.

Disney’s upcoming baseball flick, allegedly “a cross between Jerry Maguire and Moneyball“, is about a struggling sports agent (Mad Men‘s John Hamm) looking for a great pitcher among India’s cricket players. There are too many highly talented contributors — director Craig Gillespie (Lars and the Real Girl), screenwriter Thomas McCarthy (director of Win Win and The Visitor), producer Bill Simmons and costars Lake Bell, Alan Arkin, Bill Paxton and Aasif Mandvi — to wave this one off as another sports-flick ho-hummer. This has to be at least half-decent.

I attended the Oratorio Society of New York‘s annual performance of George Frideric Handel‘s Messiah last night at Carnegie Hall. The piece was first performed in Dublin in 1742. The OSNY has been performing it every Christmas since 1874. Who am I to offer the slightest criticism in the face of all that history and tradition? Several portions of Messiah are of course rousing and moving. I’m gratified to have finally seen it performed live, particularly with such first-rate passion and expertise (hats off to conductor Kent Tritle, sopranos Kathryn Lewek and Rebecca Ringle, bass-baritone Dashon Burton, the orchestra and chorus…everyone) but I must say that the piece itself, which ran about 2 hours and 45 minutes with intermission, felt a bit trying at times. Messiah is an astonishingly complex work that soars and swirls and reaches for the heavens, but it is rather taken with itself. Handel was basically saying (a) “get down on your knees and stay there until this is over” and (b) “if you’re a devout Christian, this shouldn’t be a problem.” Handel wasn’t Beethoven or Tchaikovsky. Excepting Messiah‘s famous “King of Kings, Lord of Lords” finale, he wasn’t given to themes or melodies that you could hum or hold onto. And the lyrics, boiled down, are a pious repetition of Christian platitudes about the absolutely glorious, mind-blowing divinity and wondrousness of Jesus Christ and the Holy Father and the archangels and so on. All right already. But it’s a “great” work and I let it all in. Happy for that.

I was going to run this story as an HE stand-alone but Franklinavenue and Slashfilm‘s Germain Lussier beat me to it. In new TV spots Weinstein Co. marketers are claiming that August: Osage County and Philomena are the “winner[s]” of some significant Golden Globe nominations. There are all kinds of flattering ways you can legitimately describe the honor of having been nominated by the HFPA. But you really can’t say that a film has won a nomination. That’s not stretching the truth — that’s a three-card-monte flim-flam. By Weinstein Co. standards if you’re chatting up a really hot lady in a nice bar in the Flatiron district, it’s the same as…well, not the same as going home with her and having mad acrobatic sex for four or five hours, but pretty much the same as making out with her in the back seat of a cab. Or something like that. Being nominated means you’re just talking to her at the bar, period. Okay, maybe she likes you and maybe she’s on her third drink, but it’s just talk.

Screen captures stolen from Franklin Avenue.

A boilerplate riff from Deadline‘s Pete Hammond about the Oscar worthiness of Alfonso Cuaron‘s Gravity was posted this afternoon. It includes a new video piece about the merits of the screenplay by Cuaron and his son Jonas (below). It’s a nicely composed look at the year’s mostly visually astounding and innovative film, and I want to once again emphasize my absolute respect and admiration for the brilliant technical craft that went into this $80 million survival flick. But the Hammond piece led me back to my original Telluride review (“Spectacular, Eye-Popping Gravity Could Be Deeper“), and I really do think my reactions were solid and straight and fairly dead-on.

Alfonso Cuaron‘s Gravity “is the most visually sophisticated, super-immersive weightless thrill-ride flick I’ve ever seen. If Stanley Kubrick had been there last night he would freely admit that 2001: A Space Odyssey is no longer the ultimate, adult-angled, real-tech depiction of what it looks and feels like to orbit the earth. Nifty and super-cool from a pure-eyeball perspective, Gravity is certainly the most essential theatrical experience since Avatar. You can’t watch a top-dollar 3D super-flick of this type on anything other than a monster-sized IMAX screen.

As reported by Buzzfeed, the Rome-based marketing outfit Fanatical About Cinema has created some posters for the February release of 12 Years A Slave in Italy. The campaign could be called one of two things: (a) “Chiwetel who?” or (b) “Ragazzi bianchi l’avevano duro durante la schiavitu troppo” (i.e. “White guys had it tough during slavery too”). Clearly Fanatical About Cinema was instructed by BIM Distribuzione, the film’s local distributor, to try and reach Italians who occasionally use the term “mulignan.” What kind of hip ad agency would create this kind of poster for a film like 12 Years A Slave? English translation: “You put-ah Brad and Michael upfront or we hire someone else…kapeesh?”

In his story about Hope Holiday’s outburst, TheWrap‘s Steve Pond says he spoke to Wolf of Wall Street director Martin Scorsese last Friday, and that Scorsese said the following: “[Wolf] is brutal. I’ve seen it with audiences, and I think it plays. I don’t know if it will be to everyone’s taste — I don’t think it will. It’s not made for 14 year olds.” HE correction: Wolf is not brutal for cineastes with any kind of social perspective and spirit in their souls — it’s a huge orgiastic turn-on that all but blows you away. And the film will totally whup ass with 14 year-olds, with all teenagers. It’s just not working with the scolds and the harumphs and the old farts — that’s it, that’s the whole contingent. Oh, and it’s not working for New York‘s David Edelstein. I’m not going to speculate about Edelstein being some kind of scold in terms of personal mores and temperament, and never having gone bonkers with coke or quaaludes in his 20s. He just didn’t find it worthy, is all. That’s allowed. To each his own.

Every film buff on the planet knows Hope Holiday, a 75 year-old actress whose career peaked 53 years ago. But it was a helluva peak. She played Mrs. Margie McDougal, a lonely lady with a squeaky, spunky voice whom Jack Lemmon‘s C.C. Baxter meets in an Upper West Side bar in Billy Wilder‘s The Apartment (’60). She and Baxter speak about loneliness on Christmas Eve (“‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirrin’…nothin’…no action!”), and about her husband (“Looks like a little chihuahua”) doing time in a Cuban prison. They close the place down and retire to Baxter’s apartment. Baxter finds Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine) passed out on his bed from an overdose of sleeping pills, and promptly kicks Margie out. “Some sexpot!,” she brays as Baxter slams the door.

(l.) Hope Holiday as Mrs. Margie McDougal, (r.) Jack Lemmon as C.C. Baxter in Billy Wilder’s The Apartment (’60).

Anyway, Mrs. McDougal has stormed back into the world of show business with a Sunday morning Facebook post that attacks The Wolf of Wall Street, which she’d seen the night before. “Three hours of torture,” she calls it. “Same disgusting crap over and over again. After the film they had a discussion which a lot of us did not stay for. The elevator doors opened and Leonardo [DiCaprio], Martin [Scorsese] and a few others got out. [And] then a screenwriter ran over to them and started screaming “shame on you…disgusting.”

Warner Home Video is releasing a Bluray of Mike Hodges‘ Get Carter (’71) in April. I’m assuming that the aspect-ratio information provided by Bluray.com is either a mistake or a sick joke because it says the film will be cropped at 1.85:1. All non-Scope British films of the ’70s were masked at either 1.66:1 or 1.75:1. (The Bluray of Criterion’s Sunday Bloody Sunday, released the same year as Carter, is masked at 1.66.) If you look at Get Carter now on Vudu.com it has a 1.75 aspect ratio. An Amazon listing for the Get Carter DVD says it was masked at 1.66. HE to WHV execs: Please respect tradition and go with 1.75 or 1.66. You’ll gain nothing but the loathing of the Movie Godz if you slice the image to 1.85. Vandalism, pure and simple.

The Wolf of Wall Street has me thinking about old-time druggy behavior, but not so much quaalude-driven as inspired by cannabis sativa. I’m thinking of an episode that happened while riding shotgun in a friend’s car with two others in back, and everyone thoroughly ripped. We were roaming around the wilds of Wilton, Connecticut, which is all shady (or dark) country roads and forest and shaded colonials and mock-farmhouses on two and three-acre lots. It was around 11 pm, and I can recall this like it happened last night. While engaged in a fairly mesmerizing conversation (are there any other kind when you’re fried?) the driver gradually forgot to keep his foot on the gas. The car went slower and slower until it came to a dead stop. And nobody noticed for a good five or ten minutes, of course, until some guy pulled up behind and flashed his lights and honked. If it had been a Wilton patrolman he would have have searched the car and our pockets, and somebody would have been popped for possession.