“It’s going to happen.” — from Robert Bolt‘s screenplay of Lawrence of Arabia.

Hollywood Elsewhere’s blow-by-blow commentary begins at 5 pm Pacific, or an hour from now.

Robert Altman-wise, I could watch California Split and The Long Goodbye once a year for the rest of my life. Ditto M.A.S.H., The Player, Thieves Like Us, McCabe and Mrs. Miller and A Wedding. But I’ll probably never watch Popeye ever again. It’s been almost four decades since I saw it (once) but that’s enough.

I have this recollection of Giuseppe Rotunno‘s cinematography being lazy as fuck — just watching the action from a distance, way too reliant on zoomed-in wide and medium shots. Harry Nilsson‘s musical score was kind of a flatliner, no? Ditto Jules Pfeiffer‘s screenplay. I always heard that Popeye was a big cocaine movie, and that this was part of the problem. Legend has it that Robin Williams didn’t get along with Altman. It wasn’t a financial bust — having cost $22 or so million, it made $60 million worldwide. But an impression lingers that it was basically a misconceived failure because of an ill-suited director.

I was told during last night’s Lionsgate’s pre-Golden Globe party that a Knives Out sequel is in the works. It would focus on Daniel Craig‘s Hercule Poirot-like character, debonair private detective Benoit Blanc. The idea would be to launch a franchise that would just keep going and going and going and going and going and going and going. Director-writer Rian Johnson is already at work on the followup. I could have reported this as few hours ago, dammit, but now The Hollywood Reporter has scooped everyone. Fuck a duck. Knives Out has made something like $245 million worldwide thus fair, and it still has legs.

Last night Team Elsewhere (Tatyana and myself) attended another great pre-Golden Globes party, a Lionsgate bash with Knives Out and Bombshell luminaries (Charlize Theron, HE’s own Rian Johnson, Toni Collette (particularly great in Netflix’s Unbelievable), Chris Evans, a less-than-fully-recognizable Ana de Armas) in attendance, and once again orchestrated by the great and garrulous and huggy-touchy Colleen Camp.

Plus Stellan Skarsgard, Billy Zane and some choice hotshot journos (Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, N.Y. Times “Caroetbagger” Kyle Buchanan, Daily Mail‘s Baz Bamigboye, Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman, Variety‘s Jazz Tangcay, Awards Daily TV and movie guy Clarence Moye).

It was cacophonous and a bit crowded but curiously relaxing…just a perfect, honeyed, shelter-from-the-storm vibe up and down…all tony amber and candles and low-light shadow and hors d’oeuvres every which way. Okay, the music was a bit loud.

Prior to the event we chilled with Phillip Noyce and Vuyo Dasi at the San Vicente Bungalows bar — smallish, quiet, darkly lighted, intimate, low-ceilinged. We were greeted by maitre’d Dimitri Dimitrov (formerly of the Sunset Tower bar-restaurant).

BTW: This being January 2020 and all, Tatyana and I have long since forgotten about that bizarre July 2017 episode when a Chateau gatekeeper wouldn’t allow us to visit on our own steam, possibly because they didn’t like the cut of my white pants.

I bought these Bruno Magli lace-ups roughly 15 or 16 months ago. Online, marked down, size 13. But they felt too small. I’d been wearing 12 all my life (or since I was 13 or 14), but I shifted into 13 about a decade ago. For well over a year I’ve been reminding myself to have them stretched out by a local Armenian shoe-repair guy. Tatyana says if I was smart or practical-minded I’d send them back to the online seller and ask for size 14 replacements. But I’ve waited too long to do that. (Plus I almost always throw away boxes and receipts — I can’t stand to have that clutter lying around.) Plus I can’t abide the idea of wearing 14s. I can’t do it. Only big galumphs wear 14s. I am not a grizzly bear or a three-toed sloth or Richard Kiel — I am a deer, a fleet fox, a thoroughbred racehorse.

Originally posted on 8.29.12: The details of this story won’t stagger anyone, but I want it fully understood I’m not making it up. It’s just one of those life-lesson stories that repeats the old adage about “you are your friends and vice versa.”

It was during the summer of ’82, and I was inside a new Italian restaurant on Columbus Ave., a block or two south of the Museum of Natural History. It had opened maybe a day or two earlier, and I remember sipping a vodka and lemonade (my drink back then) and talking to the bartender. There was a big noisy party at a big table in the main dining room. I asked the bartender what the ruckus was and he said, “Oh, that’s the owners and their investors…big dinner.”

I stuck my head inside and noticed that one of the guys at the table was an especially loud, large-framed, overweight guy who looked like a walrus. He was holding a drink in his hand and laughing with great merriment and going “Awwgghhh! Awwgghhh!” as he listened to somebody at the table say something wildly hilarious. He was kind of bouncing up and down in his seat and slapping others on the shoulder and going “awwhh-haaawwwhh!”

Right away I thought to myself, “That guy’s with the owners?” This new restaurant was trying to sell itself as a serious class act, and this guy was the kind of coarse beast you’d find at some neighborhood restaurant in Sheepshead Bay or Canarsie or North Riverdale on a Saturday night, not that there’s anything wrong with Sheepshead Bay, Canarsie or North Riverdale.

15 or 20 minutes later I was in the bathroom and the “awwgghh!” guy sauntered in and went right over to a urinal and did three things at precisely the same time — farted loudly, belched loudly and began to relieve himself. Perfect synchronization.

I knew then and there that this new restaurant wouldn’t make it. I think I actually muttered to myself “okay, that’s it” when I heard the belch-fart. Because any Upper West Side resturateur who has animals for friends will sooner or later lose favor with the locals, I reasoned. Having coarse friends means you have no taste and your judgment stinks, and that kind of thing tends to spread out in all directions.

Four or five months later the restaurant had closed.

Dolittle is set in the Victorian era — the late 1860s, 1870s or 1880s. The underwater sea-diving suit worn by Robert Downey, Jr.‘s Dr. John Dolittle is the same model worn by Kirk Douglas‘s Ned land in 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. What if Downey’s Dolittle and Sherlock Holmes characters were to somehow join up and pool forces with Land, and all three were to hitch a ride on the Nautilus under James Mason‘s Captain Nemo? The only difference being that Nemo’s crew would consist of several talking animals instead of Robert J. Wilke and the others. Plus two or three kids. Then they’d run into the animatronic giant squid, etc. And then the big climax with fearsome, fire-breathing dragon.

A scene in a film is only as effective as the worst (i.e. hammiest) actor in it. In this instance, James Cagney and Edward Woods are invested in the moment, awed by their new guns, behaving within the bounds of realism. The leering guy in the middle is the problem. He’s “acting” and therefore ruining the suspension of disbelief. Such men are dangerous.

For some reason Nick Clement’s relentlessly positive movie reviews drive me up the wall. A respected Variety contributor, Clement’s general policy is to only write about films he loves. The problem is that he loves way too much crap. And his goon followers are equally undiscriminating. When almost everything you see is wonderful, beautifully crafted, super-exciting, heart-touching, triple-wowser and a visual knockout, you wind up devalue-ing the stuff that actually is wonderful, beautifully crafted, super-exciting, heart-touching, triple-wowser and a visual knockout.

I flipped out today when I saw poster art for Fletch Lives on Nick’s page. I said something like “Jesus, you guys are really living in your own universe. Every now and then you might want to come up for some air.”

“By the end of his first year of office, JFK had begun to establish his credibility as a world leader. His leadership style had matured as he acquired insights into the realities of the nation’s highest office. It was that growth that prompted Time to name him 1961’s Man of the Year and to commission this cover portrait from Italian painter Pietro Annigoni. When Annigoni went to the White House to sketch Kennedy, he was struck by the president’s pensive, often somber demeanor, and it was this side of Kennedy that the artist decided to capture. Many readers of Time detested the final portrait, including the president himself.” — Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery. (Time cover, January 5, 1962.)

Last year the National Society of Film Critics gave The Rider, a moderately stirring but dramatically unsatisfying film, their Best Picture award. You therefore have to contemplate this year’s winners with at least a pinch or two of salt.

That said, Hollywood Elsewhere fully approves of their Best Actress prize going to Diane‘s Mary Kay Place and their Best Actor award to Pain and Glory‘s Antonio Banderas.

Do you want to know why Place (also winner of LAFCA’s Best Actress Award) hasn’t been nominated for a Best Actress award by the HFPA (Golden Globes), and most likely won’t land a covered Best Actress Oscar nomination? Money. IFC Films long ago decided against bankrolling an Oscar campaign on Place’s behalf, and this is what happens when you make that call. And Place gave the best female performance of the year.

We all knew the NSFC would give Parasite their Best Picture award. Incessant political pressure from the pro-Little Women lobby finally bore fruit with the NSFC giving its Best Director award to Greta Gerwig. Once Upon A Time in Hollywood‘s Brad Pitt and Marriage Story‘s Laura Dern won Best Supporting Actor and Actress.

Best Picture: Parasite
Best actor: Antonio Banderas, Pain and Glory
Best actress: Mary Kay Place, Diane
Best supporting actress:  Laura Dern, Marriage Story and Little Women
Best supporting actor: Brad Pitt, Once Upon A Time In Hollywood
Best director:  Greta Gerwig, Little Women
Best screenplay: Bong Joon Ho and Han Jin Won, Parasite
Best cinematography: Claire Mathon, Portrait of a Lady on Fire and Atlantics
Best nonfiction film: Honeyland