I happened to listen to the Russian National Anthem a couple of times during the recent Winter Olympics, and for whatever reason I found myself kind of melting into it. It got me, and got me again. Very full-hearted and whatnot. Obviously I’m influenced by being married to a passionate Russian, but only, I think, in the sense of being willing to really listen to it. Which I wasn’t before, largely due to the usual circumspect attitudes about crazy, vodka-drinking Russians blah blah. Plus I like the melody and the lyrics more than Francis Scott Key‘s “The Star Spangled Banner,” which is basically about perseverance during an arduous military battle and is hard to sing besides. Listening to the Russian anthem is like being hugged.

I’ve been missing screenings of Armando Ianucci‘s The Death of Stalin (IFC Films, 3.9) for the last six months, but I finally saw it last night. I’ve no argument with the critics who are doing handstands and cartwheels except for the fact that it’s more LQTM funny than the laugh-out-loud kind. There’s nothing wrong with LQTM humor, which I’ve also described as no-laugh funny — you just have to get past the idea of expecting to go “hah-hah, ho-ho, hee-hee” because that never happens.

Iannucci’s script is about top-tier, real-life Communist scumbags (Nikita Khrushchev, Georgy Malenkov, Lavrentiy Beria, Georgy Zhukov, Vyacheslav Molotov, Svetlana Stalina) scrambling for position and power in the wake of Joseph Stalin‘s death in March 1953. It’s based on Fabien Nury and Thierry Robin‘s graphic novel “The Death Of Stalin.”

I’ve been spitballing 2018 releases for several weeks, but now I’m attempting to focus on films that will probably stand out in terms of great reviews, Best Picture nominations and award campaigns.

It’s now March 6th — less than six months away from the start of the ’18/’19 award season. And right now (stop me if you’ve read this before) eight films are the leading Best Picture hotties — Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman, Adam McKay‘s Back Seat, Damien Chazelle‘s First Man, Barry Jenkins‘ If Beale Street Could Talk, Bryan Singer‘s Bohemian Rhapsody, Bjorn Runge‘s The Wife, Mimi Leder‘s On The Basis of Sex, and Josie Rourke and Beau Willimon‘s Mary, Queen of Scots. (8)

Tell me which others should be included….please. Richard Linklater‘s Where’d You Go, Bernadatte? Terrence Malick‘s Radegund? Jason Reitman‘s The Front Runner? Felix von Groeningen‘s Beautiful Boy? Yorgos Lanthimos‘ The Favourite (reign of Queen Anne in early 17th Century)? Joel Edgerton‘s Boy Erased starring Lucas Hedges? (6)

Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci in Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman (Netflix).

Saoirse Ronan in Mary, Queen of Scots.

Director Barry Jenkins (l.) during filming of If Beale Street Could Talk.

Felicity Jones (l.), Armie Hammer (r.) during filming of Mimi Leder’s On The Basis of Sex.

Upmarket Genre: 1. Luca Guadagnino‘s Suspiria (Dakota Johnson, Chloë Grace Moretz, Tilda Swinton, Mia Goth); 2..Steve McQueen‘s Widows (Viola Davis, Cynthia Erivo, Andre Holland, Elizabeth Debicki, Michelle Rodriguez, Daniel Kaluuya, Liam Neeson, Colin Farrell); 3. Ron Howard‘s Solo — A Star Wars Story (Alden Ehrenreich, Woody Harrelson, Emilia Clarke, Donald Glover, Thandie Newton); 4. Lynne Ramsay‘s You Were Never Really Here; 5. 20. Stefania Solluima‘s Soldado (Benicio del Toro, Josh Brolin, Catherine Keener — Columbia, 6.29.18).; 6. Steven Spielberg‘s Ready Player One (Tye Sheridan, Olivia Cooke, Ben Mendelsohn, T. J. Miller, Simon Pegg, Mark Rylance); 7. Jennifer Kent‘s The Nightingale (19th Century Australian revenge saga) w/ Aisling Franciosi, Baykali Ganambarr, Sam Claflin, Damon Herriman, Ewen Leslie. (8)

Likeliest Best Foreign Language Feature Contenders: Alfonso Cuaron‘s Roma (Marina de Tavira, Marco Graf, Yalitza Aparicio, Daniela Demesa, Enoc Leaño, Daniel Valtierra); Asghar Farhadi‘s Todos lo saben (Spanish-language drama w/ Penelope Cruz, Javier Bardem, Barbara Lennie, Ricardo Darin, Inma Cuesta, Eduard Fernandez Javier Camara);Laszlo Nemes‘ Sunset (a young girl grows up to become a strong and fearless woman in Budapest before World War I), w/ Susanne Wuest, Vlad Ivanov, Björn Freiberg; Paolo Sorrentino‘s Loro (life of Silvio Berlusconi); Nuri Bilge Ceylan‘s The Wild Pear Tree, and Olivier Assayas‘ E-book. (6)

Possible Strongos: Jacques Audiard‘s The Sisters Brothers (Jake Gyllenhaal, Joaquin Phoenix, Rutger Hauer, Riz Ahmed, John C. Reilly); Felix von Groeningen‘s Beautiful Boy with Steve Carell and Timothy Chalamet; Xavier Dolan‘s The Death and Life of John F. Donovan (Kit Harington, Natalie Portman, Jessica Chastain, Susan Sarandon, Kathy Bates); Spike Lee‘s Black Klansman (John David Washington, Adam Driver, Laura Harrier, Topher Grace, Corey Hawkins — Focus Features). (4)

I can’t express sincere enthusiasm about a film directed by Rob Marshall, who has given me so much pain over the years. And I’m already having trouble with the idea of the Puerto Rican-descended Lin-Manuel Miranda playing a “lamplighter” (and apprentice to Dick Van Dyke‘s “Bert” from the original 1964 version) in 1930s London. But I love watching Emily Blunt‘s Mary Poppins descend from 5,000 feet in the foggy overhead, and I admire the damp outdoorsy atmosphere conveyed by John Myhre‘s production design and Dion Beebe‘s cinematography. So there’s hope.

This morning Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone declared that Guillermo del Toro‘s The Shape of Water “is one of the best films to win the Best Picture Oscar in two decades. It joins the ranks of the best of the best, like No Country for Old Men, The Departed and The Hurt Locker, and perhaps ushers in a new decade of films that will flourish under America’s sudden turn to the dark side.”

The Shape of Water is a partly gentle, partly porno-violent fairy-tale about loneliness and longing and fish-sex, but it’s a genre film and therefore a curio in the annals of Best Picture winners, and it damn sure isn’t one of “the best of the best.” Sasha is crazy for comparing it to The Departed or No Country For Old Men….good God! The Movie Godz don’t read everything but they read Hollywood Elsewhere, and I can tell you they’ll shriek like banshees when they read her piece. And I mean like Michael Keaton in Beetlejuice when Geena Davis tries to say his name three times: “Eeeeeeeeeee!!!”

The Shape of Water is the only creature fantasy to seriously contend for a Best Picture Oscar, much less win one. (Right?) It’s a trans-species love story that cares about the interior lives of marginal people and whatnot, but I’m writing about it now because it’s first and foremost an aberration — a film that won largely because of the New Academy Kidz and their clenched determination to include genre films in the realm of Best Picture consideration, and in so doing shake things up.

I’ve long disagreed with the Academy prejudice that comedies can’t be regarded with the same respect afforded to socially realistic dramas, but there’s no denying that genre films have worked hard for decades at defying general laws of believability and credibility with a kind of “fuck it, we’re a genre movie” attitude.

I’m not talking about scary or horrific films but those which deal their cards according to pulpy, fast-and-loose rules. (Like The Shape of Water.) And I’m saying this, mind, as one who would have completely respected King Kong or Psycho or Val Lewton‘s Cat People or The Night of the Hunter being handed a Best Picture Oscar.

Unlike almost every other Best Picture winner except for six or seven I’d rather not mention, The Shape of Water is more or less indifferent to the world that we’re all unfortunately stuck with, and is a creation that totally resides in Guillermo’s head.

It contemplates nothing except for the eternal condition of loneliness and the need to be loved and the balm of compassion, which we all value. But at the same time it’s not that great because of staggering plot holes and logic flaws. It’s a creature feature that believes in kindness and compassion, yes, and is “completely dominated and in fact saturated with its Guillermo-ness,” as I said last September. But “the best of the best”?

Variety reported two months ago that Guillermo del Toro and Sunset Gun‘s Kim Morgan are co-writing a remake of Nightmare Alley, a 1947 film noir that even its biggest fans (and they are relatively few in number) would describe as decidedly bizarre if not grotesque.

The handsomely produced 20th Century Fox film starred Tyrone Power as a sociopathic carnival barker who rises and falls in sordid, appalling fashion, and ends up returning to the carnival realm as a geek who bites the heads off chickens.

Stuart Gordon‘s Trailers From Hell assessment sums it up nicely, and I’m all for films that cater to people with perverse tastes in downswirl melodrama. But the original Edmund Goulding-directed film died at the box-office for a reason.

If Guillermo and Kim’s script closely adheres to the 71-year-old Jules Furthman screenplay or to William Lindsay Gresham‘s 1946 novel (which arose from conversations Gresham had “with a former carnival worker while they were both serving as volunteers with the Loyalist forces in the Spanish Civil War”**), look out. At best this will be a film festival darling (Telluride’s Tom Luddy will wet himself) and not much else.

Kim Morgan, Guillermo del Toro prior to last night’s Oscar telecast — I’m getting a Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera vibe.

The night before last I caught Eli Roth and Joe Carnahan‘s Death Wish. I didn’t completely despise it. I chortled two or three times. The performances by Bruce Willis and Vincent D’Onofrio are reasonably decent. But it’s not my idea of really well-written (they should have stayed with Joe Carnahan’s original 2015 script), and is therefore not very believable. I was sitting there going “fake, oversold, uhn-uh, nope, bullshit, not right, cliche, sloppy,” etc.

But at the same time it was occasionally competent enough to make me wonder if Death Wish might improve its game, at least during the first act. It never did. It’s mainly a fantasy wallow for righties and NRA enthusiasts and lost-in-their-own-realm LexG-types, and one that constantly nudge-nudges those who are already in the pro-gun camp.

It’s certainly not as precise or zeitgeisty as Michael Winner and Charles Bronson‘s 1974 Death Wish (exploitation films work better if they dial it down and take their time in delivering the payoff moments). It’s nowhere near as good as the first John Wick (’14), and not as occasionally satisfying as Antoine Fuqua‘s The Equalizer (ditto), which was otherwise a second-rater.

There’s a place in my head for top-tier rightwing action flicks about showing no mercy to scurvy bad guys. I still say the all-time best in this realm is Tony Scott‘s Man on Fire (’04), and for reasons far too numerous to list here.

The most important thing to remember if you’re going to make one of these things is to (a) avoid happy-family cliches and (b) stay away from trying to message the audience with thin slices of conservative theology. Death Wish flubs it on both counts.

Its first-act depiction of the family life of Chicago-based surgeon Paul Kersey (Willis, married to Elizabeth Shue‘s Lucy Rose and about to send Camila Morrone‘s Jordan off to college) is way too alpha and serene. This will come as a shock to Roth and Carnahan, but real-life families occasionally irritate or bore each other, and sometimes they even argue. And then comes an “oh, please!” when Willis asks a friend of Jordan’s what book she’s reading, and she says it’s a school assignment, and that the author is Milton Friedman, the conservative economist who advised Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. (I don’t remember if she mentioned a title, but it was probably “Capitalism and Freedom.”) I wonder if this scene is from Carnahan’s original screenplay or what.

I understand why Roth’s film is set in Chicago, which is regarded as the most gun-violent city in the U.S. right now (despite the fact that on a per-capita basis Chicago’s murder rate was lower last year than that of seven other cities). But Roth is trying to sell the idea that wealthy suburbanites (like Willis’s Kersey) are living under siege conditions, and that feels to me like an NRA fantasy. (My limited understanding is that the vast majority of Chicago’s gun deaths have occured in the city’s unruly south side.)

I’m a Taylor Sheridan fan as far as it goes (respected and admired Wind River without actually “liking” it), so I can’t come up with any reason to not be at least marginally interested in Sheridan’s Yellowstone (6.20.18). The ten-episode western series (rich cattle rancher, family issues, violent altercations) was written by Sheridan. Kevin Costner, Wes Bentley, Kelly Reilly, Luke Grimes, Danny Huston, Cole Hauser, Gretchen Mol, Jill Hennessy, Patrick St. Esprit, etc. Do I have a Paramount Network app on my Roku box? Can’t be an issue to get one.

I’m already feeling miserable over the apparent likelihood that the weather may be chilly and wet during tomorrow’s Spirit Awards ceremony in Santa Monica. I’m also feeling glum over the distinct possibility that Jordan Peele‘s Get Out will beat Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name for the Best Feature prize. (I’m clinging to the fact that Guadagnino’s film won big-time at last November’s Gotham Awards, which may be a harbinger of Spirit thinking.) I’m presuming either Peele or Guadagnino will take the Best Director trophy. CMBYN‘s Timothee Chalamet and Lady Bird‘s Saoirse Ronan will presumably win the Best Actor and Best Actress award, but what do I know? Here’s hoping Lady Bird‘s Laurie Metcalf wins for Best Supporting Actress, and that Geremy Jasper‘s Patti Cake$, a Sundance breakout that made almost no money, takes the Best First Feature award. I’m playing the rest by ear.

I recorded a discussion a couple of hours ago with Jordan Ruimy. 78 minutes. Jordan’s insect anntennae are telling him that Jordan Peele‘s Get Out will pull off “the upset to end all upsets” when it comes to the Best Picture Oscar. I say “nah.” Peele’s only real shot is possibly winning Best Original Screenplay, despite most oddsmakers betting that Martin McDonagh‘s Three Billboards has this award in the bag.

But if Get Out wins…well, there will no joy in HE Mudville, I can tell you that. There will be, in fact, a great weeping and pulling of hair and refrigerator-punching…a great bellowing howl that will stand up to the legendary wailings of John Lennon during his primal scream period. If this happens I’m going to tap something out for the column but I’ll also record some thoughts verbally and post the mp3 as a form of post-traumatic therapy.

All I know is that apart from the sentimental embarassments (Chicago, The King’s Speech, The Artist, The Greatest Show on Earth, Driving Miss Daisy, Around The World in 80 Days), the idea behind any Best Picture selection is to somehow self-define, to capture cultural echoes, to say “this is a piece of who and what we are right now…not a profound summary of our contadictory drives and longings, but at least a partial reflection of same.”

This spotty, imperfect but occasionally honorable tradition will come under question if Peele’s film, a “trite get-whitey movie…a mixture of Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner and Meet The Fockers with B-level horror” (per Harmin’ Armond), takes the big prize.

If an emissary from the future had pulled me aside as I walked out of a Get Out screening at the Pacific Grove on 2.24.17 and said, “Jeff, you don’t know me from Adam and you obviously don’t have to trust me, but I’m telling you that a year from now Get Out is going to be a leading Best Picture contender, and may even win come March 4th, 2018″…if someone had looked me in the eye and said that in all sincerity I would have said “no offense, brah, but I really, really don’t think so.”

Official Sony Pictures Announcement: “Quentin Tarantino’s ninth film will be titled Once Upon A Time In Hollywood, and will star Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. The film will be released worldwide on August 9, 2019.” Previous reports have said the film will shoot in Los Angeles sometime this summer.

Back to statement: “Tarantino describes it as ‘a story that takes place in Los Angeles in 1969, at the height of hippy Hollywood. The two lead characters are Rick Dalton (DiCaprio), former star of a western TV series, and his longtime stunt double Cliff Booth (Pitt). Both are struggling to make it in a Hollywood they don’t recognize anymore. But Rick has a very famous next-door neighbor…Sharon Tate.”

Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski at their Benedict Canyon home at 10050 Cielo Drive, sometime in ’68 or ’69.

First of all, it’s spelled “hippie.” (If you’re spelling it “hippy,” you’re referencing the 1963 Swingin’ Blue Jeans version of “The Hippy Hippy Shake.”) Second, Rick’s next door neighbors were big-cheese director Roman Polanski and actress-wife Sharon Tate, not Tate alone. (They weren’t separated or divorced.) Third, DiCaprio is 43 and looks it, and if a TV actor hasn’t hit it big or found a second career wind by his late ’30s, he’s probably fucked unless he’s a character actor. And fourth, Pitt is 54 and could maybe pass for 47 or 48, at best. You can’t play a struggling, trying-to-make-it guy when you’re 47…c’mon!

Pitt and DiCaprio could’ve played struggling guys a decade ago, when they were 44 and 33, respectively. That I would’ve believed.

Last November The Hollywood Reporter‘s Borys Kit reported that the film would cost in the vicinity of $95 million, which, when you add the usual absurd marketing costs, means it would have to gross $375 million worldwide to break even, according to “one source” Kit spoke to.

“Appropriately Damning Chappaquiddick,” posted on 9.11.17: “John Curran‘s Chappaquiddick (Entertainment Studios, 4.6) is a tough, well-shaped, no-holds-barred account of the infamous July 1969 auto accident that caused the death of Kennedy family loyalist and campaign worker Mary Jo Kopechne, and which nearly destroyed Sen. Edward Kennedy‘s political career save for some high-powered finagling and string-pulling that allowed the younger brother of JFK and RFK to more or less skate.

“Just about every scene exudes the stench of an odious situation being suppressed and re-narrated by big-time fixers, many of whom are appalled at Ted’s behavior and character but who do what’s necessary regardless.

“There’s no question that Curran, screenwriters Taylor Allen and Andrew Logan, dp Maryse Alberti and editor Keith Fraase are dealing straight, compelling cards, and that the film has stuck to the ugly facts as most of us recall and understand them, and that by doing so it paints the late Massachusetts legislator and younger brother of JFK and RFK (Jason Clarke) in a morally repugnant light, to put it mildly.

“Curran has crafted an intelligent, mid-tempo melodrama about a weak man who commits a careless, horrible act, and then manages to weasel out of any serious consequences.

“Chappaquiddick is a frank account of how power works (or worked in 1969, at least) when certain people want something done and are not averse to calling in favors. EMK evaded justice by way of ingrained subservience to the Kennedy mystique, a fair amount of ethical side-stepping and several relatively decent folks being persuaded to look the other way.