On 8.4 Scott Brown‘s Vulture interview with screenwriter Damon Lindelof appeared. The gist was obvious — robot-zombie Hollywood is bingeing on destruction porn, and in so doing is eating its own tail. I read Brown’s article and went “yeah….so?” I’ve been saying this for years. Strafe the ComicCon faithful in an F4 Phantom jet. The more CG apes and comic-book geeks you can eliminate, the better. The 80-minute finale of Man of Steel was, I suspect, the straw that broke the camel’s back for many of us. It’s gone too far. It’s moderately interesting to hear Lindelof, one of the leading whore-architects of this trend, admit that self-destruction is inevitable but…aahh, I wasn’t excited enough to link to it. But I came back to it today and decided that Lindelof’s quotes are so well-phrased that they deserve a re-reading.

I could have read Terence Winter‘s script for Martin Scorsese‘s The Wolf of Wall Street (11.15, Paramount) a year ago, but I was too lazy, cocky, indifferent. It can wait, I kept telling myself. I finally read it last night and this morning, and it’s Goodfellas on Wall Street. Or Casino…whatever. The finale of Scorsese’s American hustler/den of thieves trilogy. Venal and criminal, but wildly intoxicating. Time-shuffling, narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio‘s Jordan Belfort (as Ray Liotta and Robert DeNiro narrated Goodfellas and Casino), manna from heaven, adrenalin-plus, woo-woo…and then the crash. If you fell for the first two how can you not like this installment? Same basic story, same engine, same unhappy wives, same juice, same cutting style. Winters’ script is awwwwwl right now, in fact it’s a gas. Best Picture nominee slamdunkaroonie.

Presumably people used to actually tell Woody Allen that while they enjoy his films, they really like “the earlier funny ones.” I once ran into Allen on 57th Street, right near Carnegie Hall, and the instant we exchanged glances he had a look of total horror in his eyes. The first time I saw Bananas I had recently swallowed a chocolate shake spiked with an ounce of pot. I was so ripped I was missing half the jokes or paying so much attention to the thematic undercurrent that I wasn’t laughing. But this is an example, I suspect, of what most people considered the earlier funny material.

In a recent interview with NPR’s Terry Gross, In A World‘s Lake Bell (star, director, screenwriter) lamented what she called the “sexy baby voice virus”, which she says has been adopted by young women everywhere. Okay, right. Except I bitched about the same thing three years ago in a piece called “Chirpy Minnie Mouse,” and again on 7.31.11 in a piece called “They Had Voices Then.”

Name a film that you didn’t care for at all (or felt seriously underwhelmed by) when you first saw it, and then you warmed to it the second time, and then the third time it was like “wow, what was I thinking the first time?” For me it’s Tony Gilroy‘s Michael Clayton. I don’t know what was wrong when I first saw it, but my initial reaction was “yeah, okay…pretty good.” Then I caught it a second time at the Toronto Film Festival and said to myself, “This is better than I first realized.” I think I really started creaming big-time when I saw it the fourth time, when I first watched the Bluray. I’ve seen it maybe 9 or 10 times since. It just keeps getting better and better. George Clooney to poker player (quietly, casually): “You bought some hair too.” Poker player: “With your money!” And Sydney Pollack‘s performance? Forget about it.

Paul Brickman‘s Risky Business opened 30 years and 5 days ago. It captured and in some ways defined the early ’80s zeitgeist (Reagan-era morality, go for the greenbacks, the receding of progressive ’70s culture). And it brought about an ungodly torrent of tits-and-zits comedies, so numerous and pernicious that they became a genre that forever tarnished the meaning of “mainstream Hollywood comedy.” But Risky Business was a perfect brew. The Tom Cruise-Rebecca DeMornay sex scenes were legendary, the vibe of upper-middle-class entitlement was delivered with natural authority, Joe Pantoliano‘s Guido is arguably a more memorable character than his Ralph Cifaretto in The Sopranos, and the opening dream sequence is just as funny and on-target in its depiction of encroaching doom as Woody Allen‘s Bergmanesque train-car sequence at the beginning of Stardust Memories.

I’m queer for Blurays of classic black-and-white films. Until recently I’ve never believed that I could get Bluray quality out of digital high-def streaming, but I’m now convinced that Vudu is a reasonably good delivery system for that. And they claim to have significantly more high-def movies in their library than anyone else. And that their new films are available day-and-date with DVD releases. And I feel that the quality is pretty good. Not perfect but commendable for the most part.

There’s no Bluray for John Frankehheimer‘s Seven Days in May (’64) and until yesterday I’d never seen it in high-def on a video monitor, but Vudu delivers a very satisfying high-def version — rich, sharp and silvery. I also watched a high-def version of Stanley Kramer‘s Judgment at Nuremberg (’61), and found it mostly satisfying. And yet a Vudu high-def version of From Here To Eternity (which is coming out on Bluray in a few weeks) didn’t look as robust and gleaming as a high-def rendering on TCM that I caught last spring. And a high-def Vudu viewing of Stanley Kramer‘s On The Beach looks good texture-wise but is presented — horrors! — in 1.78 rather than 1.66 (which is how it’s presented on the old DVD). So that’a demerit.

A year or two ago The Hollywood Reporter commissioned a survey of members of Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences about their Oscar-blogger reading habits. I’ve been told by three sources that Hollywood Elsewhere fared pretty well in this survey, and, I gather, equally as well in a survey that was just conducted. HE placed among the top five, I’m told, with Deadline‘s Pete Hammond on top followed by THR’s Scott Feinberg, TheWrap‘s Steve Pond, Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson and myself. I asked around for hard corraborating data with a pledge that I wouldn’t discuss or tweet about it, but as I was more or less blown off I thought I’d at least mention what I’ve been told, as I’m convinced it’s valid. Naturally HE’s ad rep will be incorporating this into correspondence and conversations with Oscar-season advertisers.

I haven’t looked at webcams for a good ten years or so. That’s because in the early aughts they didn’t deliver fluid video of scenic spots in Rome or Times Square but jerky low-rez images composed of a series of stills…and of course no sound. Now that’s changed. Earthcam.com currently delivers clean high-def video of tourist hotspots all over the world, and with good sound. I noticed this earlier upon reading a Chris Willman piece about the Abbey Road crosswalk and album cover shot. It’s dark over there now (4:10 pm Pacific) but check out the Abbey Road webcam during London daylight hours — you can watch people snapping photos of their friends walking the crosswalk all day long. This is what I had hoped webcams would do from the get-go. Now it’s finally happening. Very cool.

We all know that the characters played by big movie stars in action thrillers and TV series always have an abbreviated manly sound. All screenwriters understand this. You don’t give the brawny hero a name like David Poland or Ron Fairly or Jeffrey Wells or Lytton Strachey. Those names convey mild-mannered equivocation, learned liberalness, moderation. No, the studly, stand-alone action hero has to be called Frank Bullitt or Josh Randall or Walker or Bronk or Jack Reacher or Lew Harper or Shane or Ethan Hunt or Ram Bowen.

The pretentiousness of that snail-paced, left-to-right tracking shot is intolerable. I don’t know what Visitors (due to premiere at the Toronto Film Festival) is about but we’re all familiar with the films of Godfrey Reggio so I can guess. This may be the most unappealing trailer I’ve ever watched in my life. I can’t wait to trash this film. I love black-and-white photography but I’m convinced I’m going to hate it. I’m not going to sit still for another one of these movies in which third-world types stare at the camera and try to guilt-trip me for living in an industrialized nation. Or for not caring enough about the victims of Katrina, which happened eight years ago. If Visitors is represented in any way, shape or form by this trailer (which I naturally suspect), I will stab it in the chest with a butter knife.