Deadline‘s Mike Fleming reports that he’s read “almost all eight pages” of Patrick Goldstein‘s Los Angeles magazine story (on stands 11.28) about the battle between Hollywood’s four trades (Deadline, Hollywood Reporter, TheWrap, Variety), and that he’s incensed that Goldstein has “made a pronouncement as bold and daring as when music critic Jon Landau wrote that he had “seen the future of rock and roll and its name is Bruce Springsteen.” Just as boldly, Fleming writes, Goldstein “reveals that he has seen the future of entertainment journalism and it is…TheWrap‘s Jeff Sneider?”

I haven’t read the piece but I don’t see why Fleming has to pick on poor Sneider, who’s just a hard-working guy hustling around for the same casting and distribution-deal scoops that other trade reporters are after.

How can Jonah Hill‘s flamboyant performance as the big-toothed Donnie Azoff (largely based on the real-life Danny Porush, the Jordan Belfort co-conspirator who did 39 months behind bars for securities fraud and money laundering) not translate into a Best Supporting Actor nomination? He’s obviously hot-wired, on fire. You can sense it right away. (Note: I tried and failed to find an embed code for this clip yesterday.)

For a good portion of ’81 I was living in a sublet on Bank Street west of Hudson, almost exactly opposite HB Studios. The rent was around $350 per month. (Or so I recall.) The sublessor was a 40something guy who lived in Boca Raton, Florida. The landlord, who knew nothing of this arrangement, was one of those tough old New York buzzards in his ’70s. Anyway the landlord got wind and told me to vacate as I was illegally subletting. He naturally wanted a new fully-approved tenant who would pay a bigger rent, but he wouldn’t consider my own application as I was a shiftless scumbag in his eyes. I refused to leave until I could find something else, and then one day I came home to find my stuff (clothes, IBM Selectric typewriter, small color TV, throw rug, framed American Friend poster) lying in a big pile in the hallway with the locks on my apartment door changed. The buzzard was playing rough.

For me, one of the legendary moments in Inside Llewyn Davis (CBS Films, 11.6) is when Stark Sands‘ army private/folk singer guy (i.e., the one stationed at Fort Dix) is sitting in Jim and Jean‘s living room early in the morning, talking to Oscar Isaac‘s titular character and finishing up a bowl of Cheerios or whatever. With the last bits of cereal consumed, Sands looks down at the bowl, raises it to his lips and noisily slurps down the “cereal milk.” I used to do that as a kid (and I’m sure the Coens did also), but it’s obvious what the Coens are “saying” with this bit. They’re telling us that Sands is a mild-mannered dipshit.

I’m finally watching Richard Goldgewicht‘s Pablo, a 2012 doc about the legendary main-title designer Pablo Ferro (To Die For, Dr. Strangelove, Being There, The Thomas Crown Affair). The doc mirrors the style and innovations of Ferro’s best work. The only possible issue (and I’m not calling this a stopper — just a complication) would be the spelling and the pronunciation of the director’s last name. Any fair-minded person would admit it’s a tongue-twister, and forget about ever spelling it correctly. I would have changed it to Goldwyn. Well, why not? Another guy did this and his career turned out okay.

Josh Brolin, Hollywood’s reigning provider of settled machismo, a poet and a very good egg on a personal basis, has manned up and crossed the sober Rubicon. The evidence had begun to accumulate (exhibit #1, exhibit #2)\. He knew that this shit would compromise and diminish everything one way or another. Sobriety is clarity, control, serenity. Hollywood Elsewhere offers crisp salute, bows in respect.

TheWrap‘s Jeff Sneider is reporting that Stephen Bowen, a Texas-based real-estate developer and a principal at Waterstone Entertainment, will show a “tape” of heretofore unseen footage of the 11.22.63 JFK motorcade as it passed through Dealey Plaza in Dallas, and that the footage might show “a guy in the bushes with a gun,” according to one person who claims to have seen the footage.

Sneider reports that the footage is owned by “a local Houston television news producer who has held it for more than 40 years. He explains that the Gersh Agency’s Jay Cohen “has agreed to broker the deal,” and that Cohen and Bowen (sounds like a vaudeville act) will show the footage next week to “news networks and other interested parties.”

Clearly, 22 year-old Stacy Martin (playing the young “Joe,” whom Charlotte Gainsbourg portrays at age 50) is the champ in this trailer. The smiles on the men’s faces are subtle, kindly, gently leering. I’m starting to see the validity of Stellan Skarsgard‘s quote about Nymphomaniac being “a very bad wanking movie.” Martin/Gainsbourg: “The difference between me and other people is that I’ve always demanded more from the sunsets…more spectacular colors as the sun hits the horizon.”

Hollywood Reporter award-season columnist Scott Feinberg has compiled a list of 15 documentaries that he feels are most likely to wind up on the Academy’s documentary branch “short-list,” from which the five Best Documentary Feature nominees will be chosen.

Feinberg’s 15 are (1) Jehane Noujaim‘s The Square, (2) Joshua Oppenheimer‘s The Act of Killing, (3) Zachary Heinzerling‘s Cutie and the Boxer, (4) Gabriela Cowperthwaite‘s Blackfish, (5) Penn Jillette and Teller‘s Tim’s Vermeer, (6) Morgan Neville‘s 20 Feet From Stardom, (7) Sarah Polley‘s Stories We Tell, (8) Tom Donahue‘s Casting By, (9) Claude Lanzman‘s The Last of the Unjust, (10) Joe Brewster and Michele Stephenson‘s American Promise, (11) Jason Osder‘s Let the Fire Burn, (12) Jacob Kornbluth‘s Inequality for All, (13) Martha Shane and Lana Wilson‘s After Tiller, (14) James Toback and Alec Baldwin‘s Seduced and Abandoned and (15) Steve Hoover‘s Blood Brother.

As CBS news anchor Walter Cronkite read the official confirmation that President Kennedy had died from gunshot wounds in Dallas, two guys in white shirts and ties stood behind him. Watch the guy on the left as Cronkite concludes the announcement with the words “two o’clock Eastern standard time…some thirty eight minutes ago.” At this point Cronkite looks down and tries to maintain his newsroom composure (he’s clearly choking up) as he puts his glasses back on — a silence of four to five seconds. At the four-second mark the guy behind Cronkite on the left (the late Don Hewitt?) glances at Cronkite, apparently wondering if Cronkite is melting down. A half-second later Cronkite speaks again (“Vice President Johnson…”) and the guy quickly turns his head back to the desk.

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