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A little more than five months ago (or 6.29.19) I posted a Clockwork Orange piece called “Cold, Repellent, Oddly Beautiful.” One of the visual components was a video capture of the last 31 seconds of Stanley Kubrick’s 1971 masterpiece. No biggie, right? Nearly a half-century old.

Today I was advised by YouTube that “your video ‘Clockwork Finale’ was removed because it violates our sex and nudity policy.”

Really? The PG-13-ish conclusion of one of the absolute landmark films of the ’70s, directed by one of the most iconic 20th Century helmers violates their sex and nudity policy? And it took them five and a half months to notice this alleged violation?

The Dickensian fantasy sequence in question (i.e., Malcolm McDowell‘s Alex DeLarge and a young woman having if off in the snow as 19th Century London swells applaud) is mostly about suggestion. Hardly an envelope pusher.

YouTube’s message stressed that “because it’s the first time, this is just a warning. If it happens again, your channel will get a strike and you won’t be able to do things like upload, post, or live stream for 1 week. A second strike will prevent you from publishing content for 2 weeks. Three strikes in any 90-day period will result in the permanent removal of your channel.”

3:30 pm update: I tried refreshing YouTube repeatedly and was unable to access the main page for 90 minutes or so. I wrote them to say (a) seriously? and (b) if this is a warning why can’t I access YouTube? Ten minutes ago they removed the strike.

I first spotted this billboard last weekend. Ever since I’ve been telling myself to get up there and snap a photo. I finally did Thursday night, right after Scott Feinberg’s Al Pacino interview at the DGA, which I’ll write about sometime tomorrow. (It’s now 12:05 am.) Talk about a farewell hug. It’s sitting on the north side of the Sunset Strip, facing southwest and somewhere between Olive and La Cienega.

HE’s biggest movie-star moment during last Monday’s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood party at Musso & Frank party? Meeting costar Julia Butters. She has that magnetic spark, that vibe, that extra-ness, that charismatic mesmerizing whatever. Plus she seems to have a certain Zen calm thing at the same time. She’s not excitable like some kids get. She has this casual Brando ‘tude. The ten-year-old Butters (born on 4.15.09) was sitting at a small table with her parents, Darin and Lorelei Butters. Tatyana and I strolled up, introduced ourselves, shook hands, etc.

Julia Butters — Monday, 12.2, Musso & Frank.

Sony honcho Tom Rothman, Quentin Tarantino, Julia Butters.

“Don’t cry in front of the Mexicans.”

I didn’t understand the recent back-and-forth between Leonardo DiCaprio and rightwing Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro. The latter made false claims that Leo’s Earth Alliance donated $5 million to local environmental groups, which Bolsy claimed were responsible for starting Amazon forest fires. Leo’s response confused me. Why didn’t he just cut to the chase and call Bolsy as asshole? I was going to ask Leo about this but I got distracted by cheesecake and then he left.

10:37 am: Hollywood Elsewhere 100% applauds the NYFCC giving their Best Picture award to Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman, but giving their Best Director award to Benny and Josh Safdie for Uncut Gems is absolute contrarian poke-the-hornet’s nest insanity. The honorable Scorsese has taken the top prize and Quentin Tarantino has snagged a kind of second or third prize with the screenplay award, but the NYFCC’s embrace of the Safdies is almost, within the realm of year-end award-giving, a kind of felony. I know more than a few people who hate Uncut Gems, or at the very least have found it infuriating or soul-draining. And here’s the NYFCC giving the brothers a bear hug and saying “yes, you did well, keep it up, more like this!”

10:18 am: Once Upon A Time in Hollywood‘s Quentin Tarantino has won the NYFCC’s Best Screenplay award. Check. Well-liked film, great dialogue, an unusual tale with a compassionate ending.

9:57 am: Lupita Nyong’o wins the NYFCC’s Best Actress trophy for Us? Seriously? Eight parts wokester virtue-signalling, two parts serious regard for a noteworthy performance…trust me. Last year’s Best Actress award for Support The Girls‘ Regina Hall comes to mind. The NYFCC used to be the NYFCC — now it’s an organizational ally of Indiewire‘s wokeness gesture crusade. Good as she was in Jordan Peele’s interesting if underwhelming horror flick, Lupita basically delivered an intelligent, first-rate, Jamie Lee Curtis-level scream-queen performance with a side order of raspy-voiced predator doppleganger. Five out of 31 Gold Derby handicappers have Lupita on their lists, but no one has her in first or second position. I realize that the Best Actress field is regarded as a bit weak this year, but I would have gone with either Bombshell‘s Charlize Theron, The Farewell‘s Awkwafina or Judy‘s Renee Zellweger.

9:40 am: In another international-minded, anti-Gold Derby decision, the NYFCC has blown off Joker‘s Joaquin Phoenix, Marriage Story‘s Adam Driver and Uncut Gems‘ Adam Sandler to give their Best Actor prize to Antonio Banderas‘ minimalist, intriguingly layered performance in Pedro Almodovar‘s Pain and Glory. HE has no argument with this — it’s one of Banderas’s all-time best performances, and it won the Best Actor prize in Cannes last May — but understand that the NYFCC’s motive in choosing him was at least partly to give the bird to the Gold Derby gang.

9:12 am: Laura Dern has won the NYFCC’s Best Supporting Actress trophy, mostly for her tough divorce attorney performance in Marriage Story (and in particular that great monologue about how women are unfairly regarded by Judeo-Christian culture) and also for her Marmie in Little Women, a performance that I found…well, sufficient.

9:04 am: Joe Pesci‘s soft-spoken performance as Russell Buffalino in The Irishman has won the New York Film Critics Circle’s Best Supporting Actor award. There’s no question that Pesci delivers in a dead-calm, clean-pocket-drop way in Martin Scorsese‘s epic film, but how very NYFCC to single him out. Rank-and-file handicappers would have gone with Al Pacino‘s Jimmy Hoffa turn or Brad Pitt‘s Cliff Booth in Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, but whatever. Pesci rules today!

Earlier: In another snooty move, the NYFCC has blown off Roger Deakins‘ phenomenal cinematography in 1917 in order to give the Best Cinematography award to Claire Mathon’s lensing of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. A very handsomely shot film, no question, but not my idea of mind-blowing or wowser or whatever triple-cool superlative you want to use.

Earlier: The NYFCC’s Best Animated Feature award has gone to I Lost My Body. No comment as I lost my interest in watching animated films about a decade ago. Knowing that I will never sit through another animated film in the time I have remaining on this planet fills me with indescriable joy.

Daniel Craig looks leaner and tougher (i.e., younger) than he does in Knives Out, that’s for sure. But when he bungee-jumps off the aqueduct bridge in Matera…gentlemen! I’ve been explaining for years that hero protagonists diving off buildings, cliffs and high bridges is an infuriating cliche, and filmmakers don’t care…they just don’t care.

That includes No Time To Die helmer Cary Joji Fukunaga, who for the time being has put aside the Sin Nombre, Jane Eyre and Beasts of No Nation identity badge in order to become…you tell me.

Favorite No Time To Die touches: (a) Rami Malek‘s lizard skin and Phantom of the Opera mask, (b) heavily militarized Aston Martin, (c) Christoph Waltz‘s silver-haired Ernst Stavro Blofeld, confined Hannibal Lecter-style inside a thick plastic cell.

Otherwise the same old shite. It has to be. It can’t not be. 007 films are two parts Turkish heroin, one part ketamine, sprinkled with sugar and men’s cologne and fortified by corporate determination. Stunt guys are happy, paychecks all around.

I call bullshit on the flying motorcycle soaring like a hawk up and over a medieval city wall and crashing into a line of tourists. Steve McQueen‘s motorcycle leap over a hilly barbed-wire border frontier in The Great Escape…fine. But this thing? Update: Okay, they actually figured a way to make this happen with a specially built super-ramp and an Xtreme stunt guy, etc. But no one trusts what they see in a film anyway so who cares? It’s all bullshit.

Two and a half years ago Tatyana and I got married on La Piedra State Beach, which is way out in western Malibu and about a half-mile from the Trancas shopping center. Today we re-visited the exact same spot for old times sake, and did a little roaming around. We ran into a U.S.-born Russian woman named Irina, and she agreed to take a few shots.

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In his annual N.Y. Times Thanksgiving column, Kevin Dowd — Maureen Dowd‘s gray-haired, devotedly Catholic, liberal-despising, Trump-tolerating brother — assesses the Democratic field:

“Warren/Sanders: If you combine the support of the two billionaire-bashing socialists, they lead the field. You might consider vacationing in Venezuela before committing to them or they could run together as the End of Days ticket.

Biden/Bloomberg: Like Bloomberg, Biden has been forced to grovel and renounce all past career accomplishments on crime prevention.

Harris/Booker: They’re having trouble lighting the spark, even with some black voters.

Klobuchar/Buttigieg: They are the two least crazy people in the field, which means they have absolutely no chance.”

Kevin doesn’t hate Pete!

This is what’s known as an “obiter dicta” — words in passing that give the game away. Amy hasn’t a prayer so Kevin is basically saying Pete is the only credible Democratic contender who doesn’t make him throw up. Being called one of the “two least crazy people in the field” is another way of saying “Pete isn’t my guy but he has certain half-tolerable qualities, including a respect for people of faith.” You could take Kevin’s expression of limited support and turn it into “I guess if Pete won the Presidency, it wouldn’t be an absolute catastrophe.”

This implies that tens of thousands of other conflicted Trump fans out there might feel the same way. Think about that.

Al Pacino’s Jimmy Hoffa is a strong supporting role — he doesn’t appear in The Irishman until the second hour, and there’s about 35 minutes’ of movie left after he departs. Agreed, Pacino’s performance feels like a co-lead but he’s not the main protagonist — Robert DeNiro’s Frank Sheeran has that burden.

Same deal with Brad Pitt’s Cliff Booth in Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. He’s more cool-cat charismatic than Leonardo DiCaprio’s Rick Dalton, but he’s still the best friend, still bunking in that grubby trailer, still the guy driving his boss’s car, etc. Almost a co-lead, granted, but not the lead either. And that’s cool.

Willem Dafoe is definitely a co-lead with RBatz in The Lighthouse.

Jonathan Pryce is unquestionably playing the lead protagonist in The Two Popes — he and Anthony Hopkins are not co-leads.

Tom Hanks’ Fred Rogers obviously has more gravity and personality than Matthew Rhys’ Lloyd Vogel in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, and if Sony had chosen to run him as a lead, they could have sold it. But they decided against that.

I suspect that what Billy Dee Williams meant when he said he identifies as “non-binary” was that he doesn’t give a fuck who fucks who. He was basically saying “I’m easy.” But even if he meant that he’s indulged his womanly side in this or that way, I don’t think it matters all that much given his age. He’s past his sell-by date. If Lando Calrissian had offhandedly mentioned in 1980 or ‘83 that he’s had a little non-binary action, then we’d be talking headlines. But who cares when an 82 year-old guy says this?

2020 will be upon us in less than five weeks. A new decade, no more teens…is it possible that after 20 years of the 21st Century people might finally begin to identify the forthcoming years as twenty-something rather than two-thousand-whatever? When are people going to finally let that infuriating Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick-ism go?

Now’s as good a time as any to begin spitballing the 2020 films that might make a difference. Right now Hollywood Elsewhere is most looking forward to four, and a couple of these might not open before 2021. I really don’t know much.

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HE to Michael Musto and Hollywood Reporter Oscar soothsayer Scott Feinberg: We’ve got a major conflict between you two as far as Greta Gerwig‘s Little Women (Sony, 12.25) is concerned. La Dolce Musto has Greta’s film at the very top of his Gold Derby Best Picture spitball list, and yet Scott has relegated Little Women to his second-tier “Major Threats” list, which is a Feinberg euphemism for “don’t bet the farm.”

You guys are obviously on opposite poles. One of you is probably missing or sidestepping something, and that person may be Feinberg — who knows? I realize that a lot of progressive-identifying women want to see Little Women triumph, but I wonder if it has the horses.

I’m a “yes but” admirer of Little Women. A month ago I called it “highly respectable, nicely burnished, well performed, lusciously authentic,” etc. On the other hand it never quite finds a groove, the flashback device is a bit confusing, the manuscript of Saoirse Ronan‘s Jo is burned once too often (regardless of whether or not Louisa May Alcott wrote it this way — did she?) and Timothee Chalamet‘s character doesn’t know who or what he wants, and when told “no, sorry” he flips over like a pancake.

In other words, I’m basically with Feinberg.

Michael, this is your chance to deftly and gracefully withdraw as Little Women‘s biggest booster. You don’t want to be the Japanese solder hiding out in a jungle cave after U.S troops have taken the island in 1945.

The domestically partnered Gerwig and Marriage Story director-writer Noah Baumbach are obviously the dominant award-season power couple, but Little Women‘s 12.25 release date is not what most handicappers would call particularly Oscar-friendly, at least by the way things have worked over the last decade or so.

I’m also sensing a bit of trouble waiting for Marriage Story, if you wanna know. Or more precisely for Baumbach.

Marriage Story will be Best Picture-nominated, for sure, but the dirty little secret of the pre-1917 Oscar community conversation is that the curious absence of a Spirit Awards Best Director nomination for Baumbach probably means something. A lot of us were surprised by this, as all along it’s seemed clear that Baumbach dug deep and has made his most compassionate and emotionally well-layered film. So what’s the issue?

All I can figure is that there’s some kind of whisper campaign than Baumbach cast his alter ego character, Charlie, in too charitable a light. That by depicting Scarlett Johansson‘s Nicole character as the angry, argumentative one who wants the divorce and takes the son to Los Angeles, he more or less stuck it to his ex-wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh, while failing to acknowledge…let’s leave it there.

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