Meryl Streep‘s remarks last night after receiving her New York Film Critics Circle award for Best Actress in Julie and Julia. The word somehow hadn’t gotten out that the p.a. system wasn’t the greatest, on top of which nobody except Streep and critic Thelma Adams and George Clooney put much effort into the old exceptional-enunciation, speaking-from-the-diaphragm thing.

I guess the only surprise among the WGA nominees today is the Best Original Screenplay nom for James Cameron‘s Avatar. This, I presume, was a recognition of good story bones — the well-configured structure and the way it all pays off like a slot machine in the fourth act — more than the dialogue, which few seem to admire.

The other mind-bender was nominating Jon Lucas and Scott Moore‘s script of The Hangover in the same category.

Otherwise congrats to nominees Mark Boal (The Hurt Locker), Joel Coen & Ethan Coen (A Serious Man), Scott Cooper (adapted screenplay nominee for Crazy Heart), Nora Ephron (Julie & Julia), Geoffrey Fletcher (Precious), Robert Orci and Alex Kurtzman (Star Trek) and Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner (Up in the Air).

Eric Rohmer, the celebrated, meditative and peculiar French director whose films were once famously dismissed by Gene Hackman‘s private detective in Arthur Penn‘s Night Moves (1975) as “sorta like watching paint dry,” died several hours ago at age 89.

I read the news around 2:15 pm or so, as I was leaving the Monkey Bar lunch for The Messenger. “Another great one gone,” I muttered. A legend, a major-league auteur, a pantheon guy. But I didn’t feel all that much because I’ve never felt much for his films. I’ve always respected them, but have never felt much rapport.

I can honestly say I’ve never rented or re-watched Claire’s Knee, The Marquise of O, The Aviator’s Wife, Perceval, Chloe in the Afternoon or My Night at Maud’s. after seeing them theatrically (or at a screening). They’re all worth the time, of course. I wouldn’t want to dissuade. I’ve just never been a huge fan. Is that permissible?

Others can wet themselves over the just-announced restored Bluray/DVD of John Huston‘s The African Queen (Paramount Home Video, 3.23). But not me. Not until I see it, I mean. You can’t trust anyone these days, and you definitely can’t trust anyone putting out a restored version of a three-strip Technicolor film that’s nearly 60 years old.

The portions of The African Queen with genuinely rich and bountiful colors are those that were shot on a London sound stage. The African location footage portions are great for authenticity and verisimilitude but they”re grainy and desaturated and nothing to write home about. So don’t get too excited. The film is only going to look as good as it’s going to look, or as good as it looked on theatre screens in 1951, which wasn’t any kind of drop-your-pants Technicolor orgasm experience to begin with.

The Bluray Queen may turn out to be a more luscious and detailed rendering than anything seen before, and I’ll be delighted as anyone else if this happens. Or it may turn out to be a very decent-looking, not-bad, in-and-out version covered with billions of digital mosquitoes (on top of the actual mosquitoes that Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn have to cope with on the Ulanga).

All I know is that I’ve been burned before and you can’t trust Bluray technicians to do the right thing. Not necessarily because they might be grain Jihadists. Or maybe original dp Jack Cardiff, who was shown the restored digital version and signed off on it before he died, was a grain fanatic. You never know. You can’t trust anyone. Grain monks will not go quietly into that good night. If by clapping my hands three times I could make them disappear, I would clap my hands three times.

All of the different Queens (Bluray, single disc, boxsets) will feature a doc called Embracing Chaos: Making The African Queen, featuring interviews with Martin Scorsese and others. The box sets will also include an “audio disc recording of the original Lux Radio Theater broadcast of The African Queen, a reproduction of Katharine Hepburn’s out-of-print memoir “The Making of The African Queen or How I Went to Africa with Bogart, Bacall and Huston and Almost Lost My Mind,” a Senitype film frame reproduction and postcard reproductions” of images from the film.

Yesterday the N.Y. Times online guys posted a fascinating interactive map-graph of Netflix viewing habits in 12 major cities — N.Y., L.A., Miami, Boston, Seattle, Dallas, Minneapolis, Denver, Atlanta, S.F. Bay Area, Chicago, Washington. Everything you might have suspected about the demos for various films are clearly visualized. Dark red represents the most intense interest — pale yellow and white reps low or zero interest. You can’t stop laughing.

Los Angeles Netflix rental patterns for Paul Blart, Mall Cop.

Los Angeles Netflix rental patterns for Mamma Mia. This was a hugely popular film with female Eloi all over, and yet the only dark red area is a tiny little spot in Beverly Hills. What does this tell us? That the largely female audience decided it had to be seen communally in theatres, but that it didn’t like the film enough to want to see it again in their homes? Except for women in Beverly Hills? Odd.

I wrote something important last May about the annual Oscar season wars that needs to re-posted every year. I was responding to a then-recent A.O. Scott N.Y. Times rant about the many offenses of the Oscar show. “Do something!,” he said. In an almost touching submisssion to the nihilistic impulse, Scott also suggested that the Oscars be killed.

To which I responded: “Rejigger and rejuvenate by all means, obviously, but never kill the Oscars. Never. Not because the show itself is anything close to magnificent (although we all derive fleeting emotional charges each and every year), but because every Oscar season is like a great spiritual Olympics. Because each and every film of any merit and our reactions to them are opportunities for assessing our values, lives, beliefs — the whole magillah.

“Because the Oscars, of course, are only nominally about the competing films. They’re really about how we feel and think about these films, and what we’re looking or hoping for each time we enter a theatre and submit to the dark. In short, they’re about us.

“Each year the Oscar race allows — demands — that we assess who we are, what we need and want, what defines artistic greatness or at least distinction, and the kinds of spells and meditations that films need to provide.

“Every day I’m looking to understand and sometimes redefine who I am and what I want, but we all do this en masse during Oscar season. It’s a stirring, at times joyously argumentative process. (I loved trashing Chicago and praising The Pianist in ’02 — it was all to the good.)

“For me, the October-to-February argument is all, or certainly 95% of the game. The show is maybe 5% of it — the end, the crescendo, the cherry on top, whatever. And through all of it the distributors of the films in the arena, the ones that each year compete and strive and receive the constant attention, clearly benefit.”

Variety‘s legendary breaking-news reporter Mike Fleming has resigned to run the New York office of Deadline Hollywood Daily. He obviously won’t be the east-coast Nikki Finke — Fleming is Fleming — but he’ll certainly be seen as a compliment of her column from here on. (And vice versa.) They’re not exactly married now, but it’ll be fair to call them a brother-and-sister act.

Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson calls this “a smart hire” but adds the following: “Over two decades Fleming has built a network of sources who go to him with scoops because they trust him to take care of them. He is the exact opposite of DH’s Nikki Finke, who uses scare tactics and bullying as well as good old-fashioned power-mongering to get her stories.”

MCN’s David Poland said this: “Of course, the most significant thing about Mike Fleming going to NikkiVille is not that she has added value, but that Variety is all but done now. Another one of their stars out the door. Interesting times.”

I just came across an oldie-but-goodie interview with Jason Reitman, posted by New York‘s Jada Yuan on 12.27.09.

Yuan mentions at the end that N.Y. Press critic Armond White is no fan of Reitman’s Thank You For Smoking, Juno or Up In The Air. An amused Reitman states that his films are polarizing, and then says the following: “I would be curious to hear what Armond thinks of The Insider, a film that goes [slams down fist]: ‘Smoking bad! Tobacco people bad!’ And for me that’s so boring. But, look, for some that’s the experience they want and those movies exist for them.”

Most of the moviegoers who’ve heard of The Insider probably still think it’s an anti-smoking drama (a misconception that Disney marketing let slide when the film opened), but you’d think that a smart guy like Reitman would know better. The Insider is about the killing of a major 60 Minutes news story, and about the wreckage (personal, professional, cultural) that this action causes. At most the film was peripherally or tangentially about smoking. And the fact that the 60 Minutes news story was about Big Tobacco was secondary.

The fact that Big Tobacco had enough money and legal power to make CBS corporate feel legally threatened (and thus leading to the story being de-balled on 60 Minutes) is what’s crucial to the story. It was a movie about big-time TV journalists being pushed around and then folding their tent. But the adversarial element could have just as easily been weapons manufacturers or any politically powerful concern.

Big Tobacco turned the pressure on, CBS corporate candy-assed out, and the top guys at 60 Minutes (except for Al Pacino‘s Lowell Bergman) did what their corporate bosses told them to do.

Since The Insider was released in ’99, it’s become common knowledge that due to their corporate-ownership and corporate priorities, major news media orgs can’t really be counted upon to report the tough stories (’03 Iraq invasion, WMDs). Robert Kane Pappas‘ Orwell Rolls In His Grave (’04) spelled this out pretty clearly. For my money the serious hardball information today comes sporadically from the N.Y. Times and from Bill Moyers’ Journal but mostly from online reporting and columnists and from the British newspapers. TV network news is pretty much out of the game.

In today’s N.Y. Times, director Douglas McGrath ( Infamous, Emma) makes a case for Doris Day, now 87, receiving a special career-honoring Oscar. McGrath writes persuasively and with feeling about Day’s special qualities. She committed to her light-comedy roles, held her own with the likes of James Stewart, Kirk Douglas and James Cagney, etc. But there’s one negative he can’t wave away.

I’m speaking of Day’s ghastly performance in Alfred Hitchcock‘s The Man Who Knew Too Much. I love aspects of this 1956 thriller (the murder in the Marrakech marketplace, the assassination attempt in Albert Hall) but Day’s grating emotionalism makes it a very hard film to watch. She cries, shrieks, trembles, weeps. And when she isn’t losing it, she’s acting pretentiously coy and smug in that patented manner of a 1950s Stepford housewife. Or she’s singing “Que Sera Sera” over and over again.

I’ll give her credit for almost everything else that McGrath brings up, but she’s so awful in Hitchcock’s film that this single performance almost tips over the entire apple cart of her career. (The shrieking and moaning kicks in around the two-thirds mark in the clip above.) The same thing goes for Linda Hamilton‘s shrill acting in Terminator II: Judgment Day (1991). I tried watching it the other day for fun, but I couldn’t stand her spitting rage.

Aaah, whatever. If the Academy wants to give Day a Lifetime Achievement Oscar, fine. There’s no reason to strenuously argue against it. I can bury my issue. She was great in Lover Come Back, Young Man With A Horn and Love Me or Leave Me. I remember something true and tolerable about her performance in Young At Heart, in which she played the love interest of a dark-hearted Frank Sinatra.

And yet it’s hard to think of another living veteran of ’50s and ’60s cinema who is more of an icon for uptight middle-class values and zero sexuality. I know I suddenly liked Day a lot more when I heard that rumor about her having had a hot affair with Sly Stone — but that turned out to be bogus. Day did apparently have a fling with L.A. Dodgers base-stealer Maury Wills.

Doris Day in The Glass-Bottomed Boat

Day’s Wikipedia bio says that “both columnist Liz Smith and film critic Rex Reed have mounted vigorous campaigns to gather support for an honorary Academy Award for Day to herald her spectacular film career and her status as the top female box-office star of all time.”

It also says “while Day turned down a tribute offer from the American Film Institute, she received and accepted the Golden Globe’s Cecil B. DeMille Award for lifetime achievement in 1989. In 2004, Day was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom but declined to attend the ceremony because of a fear of flying. Day did not accept an invitation to be a recipient of the Kennedy Center Honors for undisclosed reasons. Day was honored in absentia with a Grammy for Lifetime Achievement in Music in February 2008.”

Up In The Air director-writer Jason Reitman today posted this Twitter pic, called “Decisions, Decisions.”