The only thing that can lift my Oscar spirits is something that can’t possibly happen — a suprise Demian Bichir win for Best Actor. That is the only thing that could possibly turn me on (other that Billy Crystal‘s patter) during the 2.26 telecast. This is going to be one of the dullest and least surprising Oscar shows in history.

It seem as if the Viola Davis-and-Octavia Spencer coronation has already happened, for the most part. I’d feel differently if Brad Pitt or George Clooney had a real shot at Best Actor, or if Moneyball‘s Bennett Miller had been nominated for Best Director (110% deserved) or if Mychael Danna‘s Moneyball score had been nominated. But I’ve got nothing to invest in here.

A couple of more years like this and the Oscars will be in real trouble.

Somebody sent this along yesterday without including the link. I didn’t give that much of a shit about 22 Bonds so I didn’t pursue…eff it. But the sound of 22 MGM lions roaring at the same instant is one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard. Especially with earphones. For that alone this is worth a post. The best opening credits to a Bond film? A tie between Dr. No and The Spy Who Loved Me.

Lowen Liu of Slate‘s “The Hive” has suggested that each year the Academy should have a chance to re-vote the Oscar nominees from ten years back. Which is a really good idea because then the membership would be making calls based entirely on distance and hindsight (which tend to clarify things) and without the fog of politicking and emotional mood swings.

So let’s drop back a decade and hold a re-vote of the 2001 contenders:

Best Picture: In The Bedroom. Runners-up: A Beautiful Mind (actual winner, partly because of Russell Crowe’ sperformabnce but mainly, I beieve, because of James Horner’s music and the pen scene at the end), Gosford Park, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Moulin Rouge.

Best Director: Todd Field, In The Bedroom, or Ridley Scott, Black Hawk Down. Runners-up: Ron Howard, A Beautiful Mind; Robert Altman, Gosford Park; Peter Jackson, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring; David Lynch, Mulholland Drive.

Best Actor: Denzel Washington, Training Day (no change). 1st Runner-Up: Tom Wilkinson, In the Bedroom. Runners-up: Russell Crowe, A Beautiful Mind; Will Smith, Ali; Sean Penn, I Am Sam.

Best Actress: Halle Berry, Monster’s Ball (no change). Runners-up: Renee Zellweger, Bridget Jones’s Diary; Sissy Spacek, In the Bedroom; Judi Dench, Iris (I don’t even remember this film); Nicole Kidman, Moulin Rouge.

Best Supporting Actor: Ben Kingsley, Sexy Beast (hands down). Runners-Up: Jim Broadbent, Iris (actual winner); Jon Voight, Ali (great Howard Cosell inhabiting but no Oscar for an unhinged right-winger); Ian McKellen, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring; Ethan Hawke, Training Day.

Best Supporting Actress: Maggie Smith, Gosford Park. Runners-Up: Jennifer Connelly, A Beautiful Mind (actual winner); Helen Mirren, Gosford Park; Marisa Tomei, In the Bedroom; Kate Winslet, Iris (still don’t remember it).

I’ll give you a true-life “bullshit night in Boston” story. I was driving cab for Checker, which had a big garage next to Fenway Park. It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had because I learned something new every day. In any event my driver’s side window was stuck in the open position one night but it was warm out and not raining so I didn’t mind.

So I was making my way south from Tremont in heavy traffic when two stone psychopaths — guys with ugly complexions and madness in their eyes who looked like Hells Angels rejects — hailed me. I wouldn’t have stopped but traffic was temporarily stalled and I couldn’t move, and so the two psychos started walking straight for me. Trouble. Possible theft if they got in. Couldn’t happen.

Just then the traffic broke and I started to slowly pull away, and as I drove past them I said, “I can’t take you, man…I’m on my way to a pickup.” Which of course was a lie. One of the psychos said “fuck you, asshole!” and kicked the rear of the cab as I started pulling away. I got angry and made the huge mistake of flipping them the bird as I drove off. A bad idea because traffic stalled again and I was stuck there with my window open. The two psychos ran up and started slugging and spitting. One of them kicked my driver-door rearview mirror, knocking it off. I howled back and tried to block their attacks with my left arm, but they landed a couple of good ones and raised a bump or two. The saliva was the worst part. The traffic broke again and I hit the gas and was finally free.

A half-hour later I got a radio call request for my cab (#50) to pick up a fare at a certain address, which I naturally ignored. They called again, complaining that I hadn’t showed up. I had to explain to the dispatcher what was going on, etc.

It’s been decided that a father-son relationship drama starring Paul Dano and Robert De Niro will sell more tickets if it’s called Being Flynn rather than Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, the title of the 2004 memoir that the film is based on. Nick Flynn‘s book is about a reunion with his egoistic alcoholic dad in Boston in the late ’80s. The title refers to his father’s description of homeless living in Beantown.

Being Flynn (Focus, 3.2) was directed, written and co-produced by Paul Weitz (About A Boy). It costars Olivia Thirlby, Lili Taylor, Wes Studi and Julianne Moore.

Steve Jaymes‘ The Interrupters, which aired on Frontline last night, is currently streaming for free. It’s also on DVD/Bluray. It’s about violence prevention under the aegis of CeaseFire, a Chicago organization, and a portrait of three “violence interrupters” — Ameena Matthews, Cobe Williams, Eddie Bocanegra — trying to protect their Chicago neighborhoods from gunfire, beatdowns, chain-whippings and other bad stuff.

Imagine what this movie would be if Jerry Bruckheimer got hold of the material and turned it into a narrative.

I did a little hanging and chatting with Jerry Bruckheimer in the mid to late ’90s, once on the set of Crimson Tide (’95) but mostly in the wake of his partner Don Simpson‘s death (which happened in January ’96) when “produced by Jerry Bruckheimer” meant elite, sirloin-steak guy movies like The Rock, Con Air, Enemy of the State, Armageddon, Remember the Titans, Gone in Sixty Seconds and Black Hawk Down.

Bruckheimer has been on an extremely lucrative but creatively downhill path ever since Pearl Harbor and particularly since the Pirates franchise and the National Treasure films and Kangaroo Jack, Prince of Persia, The Lone Ranger, etc. Which is why his name has become a punchline and a metaphor for putrid, family-friendly, high-concept studio crap.

I’m sure Bruckheimer, who’s as rich as Cresus, has a response all worked out when he reads or hears this stuff. I’m presuming it goes something like “nobody understands that it’s tremendously difficult to deliver first-rate, financially successful studio sludge…really, really hard. But you know what? Fuck ’em. They can laugh at me all they want, but I’m laughing as I drive to the bank.” The only thing he hasn’t rationalized or figured out is what to do when he gets older and starts feeling those Jacob Marley recriminations, which come to all men sooner or later.

Each and every person who’s decided to cop out and go for the dough and let the other stuff sort itself out has felt badly during the last stage of his life. No exceptions. They start thinking stuff like “who am I really? what has my life been about? what will my legacy be?” and so on. If Bruckheimer had been killed in a plane crash just after the release of Black Hawk Down his reputation would be secure — the guy who delivered the creme de la creme of guy films. Eleven years later that rep is sadly down the tubes.

Ten or twelve years ago a guy told me about an autobiography that his colorful, hard-living father had written, and the first sentence, he said, went something like this: “I’ve been used, sued, screwed, subdued, refused, abused, led astray, turned around, flim-flammed, betrayed, deluded, polluted, disrespected, bamboozled and tattoo’ed.” I’ve actually made it into a longer sentence than it was originally.

Something historically significant has just happened in the mind of L.A. Times Hollywood reporter Steven Zeitchik, and I think it’s worth exploring. At 5:44 am this morning he tweeted that The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo has “done middlingly in the US.” Except David Fincher‘s noir-thriller, released by Sony, has recently topped $100 million so what does he mean? Is Zeitchik saying that $100 million domestic is a bit tepid for a film that cost $90 million to make? Or that $100 mill domestic is generally a meh-level thing?

Back in the ’90s a film earning $100 million domestic had definitely won a gold medal and membership in a very select club. No longer. These days $100 million is almost chump change for big-dick studio movies. To be regarded as a serious hit they now have to pull in at least $200 domestic plus another $200 or so internationally…right? Certainly by the Zeitchik scale. In whatever context a hardcore 24/7 industry reporter like Zeitchick describing $100 million as “middling” is something to mull over and meditate upon and placed in an easily referenced folder for reexamining down the road.

If I knew that allegedly exciting and provocative films like Brian M. Cassidy and Melanie Shatzky‘s Francine and Billy Bob Thornton‘s Jayne Mansfield’s Car were playing at 2012 South by Southwest, I would have applied for press credentials and snagged plane tix and arranged for lodging and all the rest of it. But as I said two weeks ago, Austin just doesn’t seem worth it.

21 Jump Street…possibly decent but clearly studio product, not enough throttle. Joss Whedon‘s The Cabin in the Woods…repelled. I saw about 60% of William Friedkin‘s Killer Joe at Toronto last September…meh. I caught Richard Linklater‘s Bernie at the LA Film Festival last June…not bad, “different”, engaging Jack Black performance. The Raid, which I hate, has already played Toronto and Sundance. Guy Maddin‘s Keyhole…maybe. Three episodes of Lena Dunham‘s Girls…fine. The one SXSW film that really has me halfway excited? Bobcat Goldwaith‘s God Bless America.

I realize that one or two special films I’m not eyeballing right now may pop through and start some conversation. That’s fine, but I can wait. I’m at peace with not being there for the first Austin showings. I’m looking at Tribeca two months hence and then Cannes, of course, and…well, that’s enough.

This was taken in the fall of ’99, a couple of months into my deal with Reel.com and about 14 months after I’d first begun writing the Mr. Showbiz column in August 1998. Every now and then you’ll find a photo or a memento lying around and you’ll say, “Wow, that was eight or ten years ago.” But October 1999 does not seem like 12 and 1/3 years ago. At all. The next time I turn around it’ll be 15 years behind me, and then 20. It just gets away from you.

Yesterday Hollywood Reporter critic David Rooney, filing from the Berlin Film Festival, posted an eloquent review of Brian M. Cassidy and Melanie Shatzky‘s Francine, a.k.a., the Melissa Leo “cat movie” that I mentioned three or four days ago.

Melissa Leo, Keith Leonard in Brian M. Cassidy and Melanie Shatzky’s Francine.

“A minimalist, image-based character study that is almost impossibly fragile and yet emotionally robust, Francine is a legitimate discovery. It’s propelled by Melissa Leo’s remarkable title-role performance, rigorous in its honesty and unimpeded by even a scrap of vanity. Made on a shoestring, this first narrative feature from husband-and-wife filmmaking team Brian M. Cassidy and Melanie Shatzky is raw, intimate and observed with penetrating acuity.

“The austere approach and stark naturalism invite comparison with the work of Kelly Reichardt, and the subject specifically recalls Wendy and Lucy. The earliest films of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne also come to mind while watching. But Cassidy and Shatzky, whose backgrounds are jointly in photography and documentary, have their own voice and their own nonjudgmental gaze.

“As a window into a life of seemingly irreversible dissociation, the film performs the uncommon trick of being wide open and pellucid while simultaneously shut tight and opaque.

“One of the interesting aspects of Francine is that despite the unsettling intimacy of the portrait, only sparing use is made of facial closeups — the usual short-cut to accessing an introspective character. Dialogue figures just as frugally, and psychological background is entirely withheld. But still we come to know the woman onscreen, speculating about her history and contemplating her future after the film has ended.”