I’ve just committed to the second biggest Hollywood Elsewhere travel expenditure for the purpose of seeing an award-season movie with the first wave. I’ll be flying to Manhattan in early October to catch the New York Film Festival’s 10.14 world premiere of Ang Lee‘s Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk. That’s right — no concurrent showing for Los Angeles critics. I’ll actually be arriving on 10.7 to catch a few NYFF attractions as well as hang in Connecticut a bit, but Billy Lynn at 120-frames-per-second will be the main order of business. HE’s flight to London in October 2013 to catch an early showing of Saving Mr. Banks remains the most exorbitant thing I’ve ever done for professional purposes.

Besides my instinctual dislike of Joe Alwyn‘s face (puffy eyes, clueless “duhhh” expression), I really don’t like the name “Billy” — it’s almost as high on my dislike list as “Danny.” To me “Billy” means a small-town bumblefuck, a rural Southerner or Midwesterner, a guy who drives a tractor or plays with a country-and-western band. The only Billy I’ve ever been half-okay with was Billy Bob Thornton. Okay, and Billy Greenbush — we got to know each other slightly when I was doing unit publicity for Critters. But I’ve always felt a certain distance from director-screenwriter Billy Ray for this reason. Ditto Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse Five.