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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.”

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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.

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“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.

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I’m really hating the MSM’s refusal to discuss a plausible reason for White House Communications Director Hope Hicks having announced her resignation from the Trump White House earlier today. The only sensible-sounding theory was tweeted a while ago by Seth Abramson, which was taken from something he heard on MSNBC: “This is a classic ‘friends and family say get out now or go down with the ship‘ scenario.”

I would have theorized that on my own. Hicks is almost certainly leaving out of concern for what may happen down the road and to avoid any prosecutorial intrigues, or something in that vein.

A 29 year-old former model from Greenwich, Hicks is said to be a steady, reliable pro — very measured and low-key in her dealings with President Trump (she’s reportedly his longest serving aide, and is allegedly closer to him than daughter Ivanka) as well as fellow White House staffers, not to mention reporters, whom she apparently never talks to.

I feel kinda “meh” about the latest (final?) Oscar handicap piece by Variety‘s Kris Tapley, but the illustration art by “Naki” (aka Ha Gyung Lee) is fascinating.

Sally Hawkins is obviously ready for a little aquatic hunka-chunka with the Oscar statuette, but look at his stiff posture. He’s clearly feeling conflicted. His eyes are closed but he’s apparently saying to himself, “What have I gotten myself into?” Why isn’t he embracing Hawkins wholeheartedly? His left hand is weakly touching her back, but otherwise his body posture screams standoffishness. The position of his arms say “maybe she’ll stop if I just stand here and I don’t express anything that could be seen as warm or erotic?”

We all know that Oscar’s arms are traditionally folded as he clasps an upside-down sword, but Naki could have gone anywhere with this. She could have shown Oscar giving Hawkins a sexy bear hug or kissing her on the lips, or caressing her hair with his left hand while his right hand strokes her neck. Instead she portrayed him as respectful but passive — a good friend or a son, but not a lover.

My pet theory is that Naki isn’t that much of a fan of The Shape of Water, and that she held back on the romantic frisson as a result. Good artists always reveal themselves in their work.

Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan, Stacey Wilson Hunt and Chris Lee have posted a piece about the views and attitudes of the Academy’s new voters, all of whom were invited to join the Academy over the last two years and who constitute roughly 17% or 18% of the present membership. Of the 14 members interviewed, more than half were women and more than a third were people of color.

By all means read the piece, but I for one found it surprising if not shocking that the biggest concerns of the New Academy Kidz appear to be representation, representation and….uhhm, oh, yes…representation.

In other words, after reading the article I wasn’t persuaded that these guys are greatly concerned with the idea of honoring great cinema according to standards that have been accepted for many decades. Tastes have changed but regard for cinema art never faltered. Until now, that is.

If these 14 Academy members were to sit down for a round-table discussion with the ghosts of James Agee, Ernst Lubitsch, Katharine Hepburn, Pauline Kael, Samuel Fuller, Ida Lupino, Irving Thalberg, Luis Bunuel, Sergei Eisenstein, Marlon Brando, F. W. Murnau, Andrew Sarris and Marlene Dietrich, I don’t think there’d be any kind of meeting of the minds. Or not much of one.

I mainly got the idea that the New Academy Kidz are heavily invested in (a) inter-industry politics, (b) a mission of bringing about long-overdue change and the necessity of advancing diverse representation as well as the concerns of women in all branches of the film industry, and (c) hoping to weaken or otherwise diminish the power of the old white fuddy-dud boomers.

“The bulk of the new voters we surveyed were generally pleased with this year’s Oscar nominations,” the Vulture guys have written, “and many detected a clear delineation between traditional Academy picks and the sort of fare their freshman class was more inclined to go for.

“’With Get Out, Lady Bird and even Call Me by Your Name, you’re feeling the younger demographic,” said a new member of the directors branch. “Then you have The Post and Darkest Hour, which definitely represents the older half of the Academy.”

HE insertion: Wait…”even” Call Me By Your Name? Fuck does that mean? That Luca Guadagnino’s film isn’t outsiderish or P.O.C. enough? Or that it feels a bit too mainstream or something?

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Yesterday on Facebook HE’s own Jordan Ruimy again predicted that Jordan Peele‘s Get Out will win the Best Picture Oscar. Then he doubled-down on Twitter this morning.

What he means is that Get Out, a half creepy, half satiric, racially-stamped Stepford Wives, will slipslide into a win because a huge number of Academy members have it down as their #2 or #3 choice, and that the “kooky” preferential ballot will do the rest.

Hollywood Elsewhere says no way. I’m not even sure that Get Out will win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar, which will most likely be won by Three Billboards‘ Martin McDonagh. It might win in this category, but forget Best Picture — the apparent momentum of the last week has all been with Three Billboards with everyone assuming that The Shape of Water‘s Guillermo del Toro will take Best Director.

I’ll say this much: One thing favoring Get Out is that the people who love it really love it, while the Three Billboards and Shape of Water crowd is more composed of likers and accomodationists.

HE arguments & agreements with Facebook comments:

“That would be great but I doubt it” — Alex Conn. HE: “What exactly would be ‘great’ about Get Out winning Best Picture? Great in what way? And how likely is this? A clever, financially successful genre film that says upscale liberal whites are just as odious as Charlottesville racists — who in AcademyLand really believes that?”

“It’s a good movie but not Oscar-worthy. The academy will give it the old ‘good effort, good try’ treatment come Oscar time. My money is on Three Billboards.” — Trexis Griffin. HE to Griffin: “But that’s the new thing — a significant portion of the new membership does consider genre fare like Get Out to be Oscar-worthy.”

“Nah. Too genre for Oscar. This one screams Best Original Screenplay.” — Tim Fuglei. HE comment: And possibly not even that.

“Jordan, will you eat a bug if wrong?” — Jay Smith. HE to Ruimy: Seriously — what act of contrition will you actually perform if you’re wrong?

“It’s Get Out or Three Billboards. There are good and bad reasons for both. Three Billboards is actor-driven and actors dominate [in the voting]. Get Out could win, but you have to wonder how the BAFTAs had the option of choosing it to win Best Picture but went with Three Billboards for both Best Picture and Best British film? Between that and having no SAG ensemble nom is why I am not predicting Get Out to win, but it is one of three that could. I have no idea what will win.” — Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone.

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“No self-respecting cinefile approves of colorizing black-and-white movies,” I wrote on 10.28.17, “but colorizing monochrome stills can be a respectable thing if done well.”

The Humphrey Bogart-Lauren BacallBig Sleep still below is probably the best colorized b&w image from a Hollywood film mine eyes have ever beheld — ditto the Bogart-and-Ingrid BergmanCasablanca shot below it. I’m aware that monochrome films of the ’30s and ’40s were shaded and lighted to deliver maximum impact in terms of a certain silvery compositional aura, but these really look good.

Okay, not so much the Bogart-and-Martha Vickers shot from The Big Sleep, but even that isn’t too bad.

Ditto: “Remember how colorized images used to look in the bad old days? I don’t know if it’s a matter of someone having come up with a better color-tinting software or someone’s willingness to take the time to apply colors in just the right way, but every so often a fake-color photo can look really good. Incidentally: I approve of carefully tinted black-and-white newsreel footage.”

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More than a little dodging and sidestepping went into the Annihilation aggregate critic ratings — 87% on Rotten Tomatoes, 80% on Metacritic. Critics are always afraid of appearing unhip or clueless — even if a movie confounds or irritates or pisses them off, it’s safer to convey knowing approval or respect for what it seems to be attempting. Presumably a good portion of the HE community saw it last night and has seen through the bullshit. And if some “liked’ it, I know they’re also bothered by it. Please share whatever reactions you may be struggling with.

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Doesn’t the fact that Judd Apatow‘s The Zen Diaries of Garry Shandling (HBO, 3.26 and 3.27) runs four and a half hours…shouldn’t that fact alone warrant special interest among Shandling fans, of which there are still many? I loved Garry’s angst, his depressive personality, his low self-esteem…I’m talking worship here. But I have to say I liked Shandling in his 40s and 50s better than the older version. His hair, for instance. Shandling had great wavy follicles in the ’90s but was down to a tennis-ball cut after Obama got elected. And his eyes got smaller — they were big and expressive in his 40s but slitty and beady in his 60s. And I don’t know about that Zen thing he got into, and I’m saying this as a former Bhagavad Gita guy. Garry once wrote “you don’t need to be anything, you can just be.” The only people who say or think that are filthy rich or completely devoted to abstinence and poverty, and Shandling wasn’t among the latter. The poor guy died of a heart attack on 3.24.16, at age 66. If there’s anything beyond death, Garry is surely part of it now, dispersed into a trillion particles of consciousness or possibly transformed into a perfect smile.

Rita Moreno‘s Anita in West Side Story was a great, full-spirited spitfire performance, but let’s be honest — she won her Best Supporting Actress Oscar on the coattails of a massive West Side Story sweep. The 1961 musical won 10 Academy Awards that night, but even its biggest fans were surprised when George Chakiris‘s Bernardo defeated George C. Scott‘s rattlesnake gambler in The Hustler. Nonetheless Moreno was the first Puerto Rican…hell, Latina actress to win such a prize, and that was no small historic thing. But Moreno (who was still involved in her eight-year-long affair with Marlon Brando at the time) was so blown away that she didn’t say anything at the podium — no thanks to director-producer Robert Wise, no shout-out to fellow cast members or other Latina actresses, nothing.

Very few remember and even fewer have seen Separate Tables, the 1958 parlor drama with Burt Lancaster, Rita Hayworth, David Niven, Deborah Kerr and Wendy Hiller. And yet this constipated, dialogue-driven film, directed by Delbert Mann (Marty) and based on a pair of one-act plays by Terence Rattigan, was nominated for seven Oscars (Best Picture, Best Actress (Kerr), Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography (Black and White), and Best Dramatic or Comedy Score) and won two (Niven for Best Actor, Hiller for Best Supporting Actress).

Separate Tables is exactly the kind of solemn, stiff-necked talkfest that was often regarded as Oscar bait in the mid-to-late ’50s. Decorum and public appearances undermined by dark secrets and notions of perverse sexuality, etc. Shudder! Erections and dampenings that dare not speak their name, or words to that effect.

Talk about “a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” etc. Two years before Separate Tables appeared a creepy, low-budget sci-fi thriller called Invasion of the Body Snatchers opened and was promptly ignored by the highbrows. Four years earlier (in ’54) The Creature From The Black Lagoon was greeted with similar indifference if not disdain. Today a pair of direct descendants, Get Out and The Shape of Water, are Best Picture nominees, and there’s a better-than-even (though admittedly dwindling) chance that Shape will take the Big Prize.

Yesterday I received a hilarious, spot-on essay by the great David Thomson — about Separate Tables initially, but also about how the appeal and some of the “Academy inflation” of this 60-year-old film are echoed in I, Tonya and Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri.

Consider this excerpt especially: “About fifteen minutes into I Tonya, on being bowled over by the vicious hangdog look of Allison Janney’s mother, the toxic lines slipping like smoke from the fag on her lips, I was ready to give her the supporting actress Oscar on the spot. Twenty minutes later I was bored with her because she was still doing the same bitter schtick. She’s an act, a show-stopper, the sort of hag who would get a round of applause as she appears on-stage, severing any prospect of dramatic truth.

“It’s not that Janney is less than skilled, or hasn’t paid her dues for decades. She’s a clever old pro so give her the Oscar. But let’s abandon the myth that she is presenting a real ‘deplorable’ instead of saying, ‘Aren’t deplorables a riot?'”

Here’s the whole brilliant piece (the first 17 paragraphs about Separate Tables, and the rest about Janney and Margot Robbie in I, Tonya and McDormand in Three Billboards):

“I found myself watching Separate Tables on Turner Classic Movies. There it was, offered with the seemingly unassailable claim that it had been nominated for Best Picture in 1958 along with six other nominations. It even had two wins, and I remembered that one of them was for David Niven playing a bogus Major. I had seen the film in 1958 and flinched at it even then (the bogus business was all fusspot), in a year that included Vertigo, Touch of Evil, Bonjour Tristesse, Man of the West, The Tarnished Angels and many others that still seem of value.

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