Hollywood Elsewhere had to drive back to Los Angeles late last night. 95 minutes from Santa Barbara, and partly in the rain while sipping lemonade-flavored Monster and listening to loud music. I’m sitting in the West H’wood abode as we speak and heading back up…I’m not sure. Possibly tonight. More likely tomorrow morning. I’m shocked to discover it’s 4 pm already.

But before leaving yesterday I sat through the Glenn Close and Melissa McCarthy tributes, which happened at 3 pm and 8 pm respectively.

We all regard Close as a serious, magnetic, world-class actress whose long-awaited Oscar triumph is finally at hand. She’s therefore a known and settled entity, which makes her, unfairly, a somewhat less interesting person than McCarthy, at least from my perspective.

McCarthy began brilliantly as an edgy TV comedienne. She broke into features in 2011 with Bridesmaids (’11) and thereafter became hugely popular with the cheap-seats crowd by mostly playing angry, mouthy, low-rent characters. After playing the coarse card for seven-plus years she shifted into serious drama with her Lee Israel performance in Can You Ever Forgive Me?, and in so doing saved herself from being regarded as a one-trick pony — rich and successful but with a limited repertoire.

Almost three years ago I posted a piece titled “McCarthy’s Game.” The fact that she scored big-time with Can You Ever Forgive Me? means that she and husband-partner Ben Falcone decided sometime early last year or sometime in late ’17 that she had to switch gears.

My basic conclusion was that “with the exception of her concerned-mom character in St. Vincent and to some extent her character in Spy, McCarthy has more or less been playing the same gal.

“I’m talking about an angry, immature, neurotic, sociopathic obsessive who acts out her anger or indifference to social norms more and more until the world pushes back at the end of Act Two (or the beginning of Act Three) and says “whoa, girl…you can’t keep doing this, you have to take a look in the mirror and admit your issues,” etc.

“In response to which a chastened McCarthy takes a look, feels sad, takes a step or two in the right direction and rebounds with a better, stronger game.

Last weekend Peter Jackson‘s They Shall Not Grow Old had a general release in 735 theatres, and posted a gross of $2,438,575. It now has a grand tally of $10.7 million in the U.S. and Canada plus $1.5 million in other territories for a total worldwide haul of $12.2 million.

The other big documentaries over the last year are Morgan Neville‘s Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, which is now at $22,835,787 and Betsy West and Julie Cohen‘s RBG, which has a current tally of $14,017,361.

Jackson’s film was initially launched as a one-day presentation through Fathom Events on 12.17.18, from which it grossed $2.3 million. Encore showings happened on 12.27.18, which brought in an addition $3.4 million from 1122 theatres.

Earlier today SBIFF devotees got a chance to see David Crosby: Remember My Name, the scaldingly honest doc from director A. J. Eaton and producer Cameron Crowe. It played at a 2pm show at Santa Barbara’s Lobero theatre, and was followed by remarks from Crosby (who lives near Santa Barbara) and producer Greg Mariotti.

Three or four days ago I asked Crowe if I could do a quick chat with Crosby after the show. He was down with this, but then I was told that Sony Pictures Classics, which acquired the doc two or three days ago, doesn’t want interviews until the film is about to open. Check, no worries. But I was introduced anyway.

The fun part came when Mariotti asked if I wanted a photo with Crosby, and I said “agghh, I’m not much for having my photo taken.” Mariotti said that Crowe himself wanted to commemorate the occasion, so I said “sure, if Cameron wants a shot…why not?” Crosby sensed my discomfort and said with a slight twinkle in his eye, “I get it…you don’t look that good any more and neither do I.”

Crosby was being 100% truthful. I love it when world-famous folks say stuff like this! 99% of the celebrities out there would never dream of telling…well, a somewhat long-of-tooth journalist that his peak attractiveness days are over, but this is what Type A impressionists do from time to time. The 77 year-old Crosby said it like water off a duck’s ass. Guys who share such words without blinking are worth their weight in diamonds. Candid, X-factor, let the chips fall.

Here’s my 1.27.19 Sundance rave of David Crosby: Remember My Name.

Snapped in Lobero Theatre green room — Sunday, 2.3, 4:15 pm.

There’s something about legendary actresses of a certain age and little white dogs. Specifically those of a Coton de Tulear pedigree.

Barbra Streisand so loved Samantha, her late Caton de Tulear, that she had her cloned and is now living with two Samantha duplicates. Jane Fonda has a 14-year-old Coton de Telear (a girl), and never goes anywhere without her. And today, for her sitdown with Leonard Maltin, Santa Barbara Film Festival award recipient Glenn Close brought Sir Pip (aka Sir Pippin of Beanfield or Pip Close) on stage with her.

Pip is a shameless exhibitionist. While Close was standing at the stage-right lecturn and delivering her “thank you so much” remarks, Pip strolled in front of her and rolled over three or four times. The audience approved.

Did I mention that Close is 100% locked to win the Best Actress Oscar? Have I reminded the readership lately that I was first blown away by her performance at the 2017 Toronto Film Festival? And that earlier in the season more than a few award-season cognoscenti (including Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson) had been somewhat cool to the idea of her winning. And that she cinched her Oscar win with that great Golden Globes acceptance speech? And that…okay, I’ve said it.

From Getty images.

What could a movie about Leonard Bernstein possibly amount to without his music? Bradley Cooper‘s planned Bernstein biopic, which is partly backed by Steven Spielberg and Paramount Pictures, has secured music rights from the Bernstein estate. So that’s pretty much it for Jake Gyllenhaal‘s rival Bernstein project, right? Both were announced last May.

I respect Cooper’s intention to both direct and star. A comprehensive Benstein biopic would naturally focus upon Bernstein’s creative saga with West Side Story, and also upon his closeted life and conflicted marriage to Felicia Montealegre. A heavy smoker and emphysema sufferer, Bernstein died at age 72 in 1990.

Presumably Cooper’s pic will include the Black Panthers episode that Tom Wolfe wrote about in “Radical Chic: That Party at Lenny’s” (6.8.70). A Black Panther fundraiser was held at Bernstein’s Park Avenue apartment, and was attended by Donald Cox, a Panther “field marshal” from Oakland. Wolfe‘s famous New York article was more or less about the guilty-liberal syndrome among Bernstein’s social crowd.

“There’s a family in our driveway” suggests…what? As with Get Out, I’m presuming that Jordan Peele is saying something about our cultural undercurrents.

Hollywood Elsewhere readers are requested to read a Hollywood Reporter piece titled “Critics’ Debate: What Is a ‘Sundance Movie’? 2019 Edition Broadens the Picture.”

It’s a discussion forum in which Todd McCarthy, David Rooney, Leslie Felperin, Jon Frosch and Beandrea July consider a few Sundance ’19 offerings.

Their comments frequently allude to the Sundance comintern platform — representation, diversity, political correctness, emerging female voices, LGBTQs, etc. They also cast subtle side-eyes in the direction of white-male filmmakers, who’ve been stinking up the joint for too many years.

Reaction from a journalist friend: “McCarthy reads like he doesn’t want to offend anybody. I understand his position, but that’s the thing about wokesters. Despite barely having any experience in writing, let alone cinema-watching, Beandrea’s resume is scant and only dates as far back as 2016 on Google, and yet she believes she has the authority to dictate what is right and wrong to veterans like McCarthy.

“Imagine if McCarthy, who’s been in the game since the ’60s and who made the definitive doc on cinematography (Visions of Light), spoke back to Beandrea about her opinions? She doesn’t care if he’s a film historian. He’s white and older and so she will set him straight.”

HE response: My impression is that McCarthy, Frosch, Felperin and Rooney sound like they’ve got loaded guns pointed at their heads. You can say what you think, fellas, as long as you don’t say the wrong things. McCarthy and friends are like that terrified family in that Twilight Zone episode, It’s A Good Life. Beandra and the wokesters are Anthony Fremont, and McCarthy, Rooney, Frosch and Felperin are the elders who are afraid to step outside the “happy” arena.

Rod Serling: “This particular monster can read minds, you see. He knows every thought, he can feel every emotion. His name is Anthony Fremont. He’s six years old, with a cute little-boy face and blue, guileless eyes. But when those eyes look at you, you’d better start thinking happy thoughts, because the mind behind them is absolutely in charge. For this is the Twilight Zone.”

Journalist friend again: “Throughout the fest I wanted journalists to be honest with me about why they thought this year’s program was lackluster, at least in terms of the narrative features. Almost all of them mentioned the fact that Sundance’s adamant stance on inclusivity was to blame. You won’t get these critics admitting this in print, of course, but many personally confessed that was a problem.”

Michael Winterbottom’s The Wedding Guest (IFC Films, 3.1) “has all the elements of a classic film noir — a shady man kidnapping a woman for cash, a long road trip, seedy hotel rooms in squalid cities, slow-burning heat between the two leads — but absolutely none of the style.

“The constantly changing backdrop of Pakistani and Indian locations represents the only real point of interest here, as the director’s original screenplay feels like a rough draft and the characters’ attitudes are almost constantly sour. Commercial prospects are nil.” — from Todd McCarthy‘s 9.9.18 Hollywood Reporter review.

Alfonso Cuaron‘s Roma has won the DGA’s Best Feature Film award, beating out A Star Is Born‘s Bradley Cooper, Green Book‘s Peter Farrelly, BlacKkKlansman‘s Spike Lee and Vice‘s Adam McKay. Congrats also to Escape at Donnemora‘s Ben Stiller and Eighth Grade‘s Bo Burnham.

Another winner during tonight’s DGA ceremony was Spike Jonze‘s “Welcome Home”, for the top commercial award. The Apple HomePod spot apparently surfaced on YouTube on 9.12.17. I love how Jonze and FKA Twigs immediately convey that feeling of spiritual big-city fatigue at the start, and then a euphoric, Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen-type release. The Anderson Paak song is “Til It’s Over.”

I’m aware of the post-PGA Green Book surge, and I agree that it’s probably a stronger preferential ballot contender than Roma. But I still think Roma will win the Best Picture Oscar, and for four reasons.

One, it’s a masterful smarthouse memory poem — a film that 5, 10 or 20 years from now the Academy can look back upon with serious pride. Two, a Roma win would spell out a huge fuck-you to the hateful, bottom-of-the-barrel opportunism of Donald Trump. Three, Alfonso Cuaron is very well-liked by everyone. And four, those perfect jet planes flying overhead, not to mention those enormously metaphorical dog loads in the driveway.

Sasha Stone says: “I disagree with Zack Sharf‘s assessment. I think Roma creeps up the ballot out of guilt and obligation and appreciation for craft, even if people don’t love it. I think Roma‘s best chance of winning is actually on a preferential ballot, and yet the Best Picture race remains wide open at this point. The only movies that have won anything so far are Bohemian Rhapsody, Green Book and Black Panther, and none of them have Oscar nominations for Best Director. It’s a really crazy and unpredictable year.”

All this said, if Green Book wins the Best Picture Oscar this would surely be understood as an even bigger fuck-you to the p.c. wokester commentariat. I can’t think of a more delicious scenario than this. My pulse accelerates at the thought.

Torrential rains interfered with the Santa Barbara Film Festival earlier today. In the late morning the 101 freeway was temporarily closed due to flooding. There were running rapids, vigorous streams, street ponds and even street lakes everywhere. I loved buzzing around inside my 2018 Volkswagen Beetle rental — such a smooth-running, well-constructed car, and with a great sound system.

Umbrellas were all but impossible to find. I was told “sorry, bruh” at three…make that four stores. I finally snagged one at the fifth.

Honored Riviera Award recipient Viggo Mortensen tried to drive up, but got stuck in Camarillo. Soon after he and travel-mate Ed Harris (who presented Mortensen’s award at the end of this afternoon’s ceremony) were heroically and adventurously flown to Santa Barbara in a private plane. The Riviera show, moderated by Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, was only delayed an hour.

Glenn Close, recipient of the SBIFF’s Maltin Modern Master Award, cancelled her 8 pm Arlington theatre show altogether — it will now happen tomorrow afternoon (Sunday) at 3 pm. Hmmm. If Mortensen could make it for a (delayed) 3 pm ceremony, why couldn’t Close get here in time for a show that would have started five hours later? Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The rain prevented four out of seven invited screenwriters (Green Book‘s Brian Currie, If Beale Street Could Talk‘s Barry Jenkins, The Favourite‘s Tony McNamara, Generation Wealth‘s Lauren Greenfield) from attending the annual Writers Panel at the Lobero. Moderator Anne Thompson had to make do with First Reformed‘s Paul Schrader, BlacKkKlansman‘s Kevin Willmott and A Star Is Born‘s Will Fetters.

I didn’t make it to the Producer’s Panel, but I gather it was also under-attended.

The 2019 Sundance Film Festival “Nobody Gives A Shit” Awards, announced this evening:

U.S. Dramatic:

Grand Jury Prize — Clemency, director: Chinonye Chukwu
Directing — The Last Black Man in San Francisco, director: Joe Talbot
Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award — Share, screenwriter: Pippa Bianco
Special Jury Award for Vision and Craft — Honey Boy, director: Alma Har’el
Special Jury Award for Acting — Rhianne Barreto in Share
Special Jury Award for Creative Collaboration — The Last Black Man in San Francisco, director: Joe Talbot

U.S. Documentary:

Grand Jury Prize — One Child Nation,” director: Nanfu Wang
Directing — American Factory, directors: Steven Bognar and Julia Reichert
Special Jury Award for Moral Urgency — Always in Season, director: Jacqueline Olive
Special Jury Award for Emerging Filmmaker — Jawline, directed by Liza Mandelup
Special Jury Award for Editing — Apollo 11, director: Todd Douglas Miller
Special Jury Award for Cinematography — Luke Lorentzen for Midnight Family