I for one admired Ryan Gosling‘s minimalist approach to playing Neil Armstrong in First Man. Armstrong, yes, was an allegedly dull and undemonstrative fellow, at least according to some, but in my eyes (and surely in the eyes of director Damien Chazelle) Gosling was conveying a complete emotive universe…all kinds of feeling, anxiety, ache and seasoned-pilot attitude, but with the tiniest and fleckiest of paint dabs.

I found it a fascinating and courageous performance because Gosling and Chazelle had made a conscious choice to not use the standard-issue emotional strategies that Ron Howard and others have resorted to in similar “solitary man vs. incredible challenge” dramas.

Obviously the ticket-buying public didn’t agree; ditto the industry when it came to handing out awards and acting nominations. File the Gosling-Chazelle experiment under “noble but unsuccessful.”

But another angle on this failure came to light when I read Owen Gleiberman‘s 1.24 review of Apollo 11, the CNN documentary that screened a few days ago at Sundance ’19.

“Even as a die-hard First Man believer, I have to say [that] while Ryan Gosling’s clean-cut, clear-eyed terseness matches up neatly with Neil Armstrong’s, the documentary confirms what I’d always remembered: that Armstrong’s face was frequently graced with the angelic hint of a smile — he was the Eagle Scout as Mona Lisa. Maybe he was just that way for the cameras, but I somehow doubt it.

“In Apollo 11, he comes off as genial and inviting, the very soul of a more optimistic America. I think if he’d come off that way a bit more in First Man, the movie might have won more fans.”

Shocker! The members of the Screen Actors Guild were so mixed or mezzo-mezzo or underwhelmed by Bradley Cooper‘s A Star Is Born that they couldn’t even give it a Best Ensemble consolation prize (i.e., Outstanding Performance by a Cast in a Motion Picture).

Instead, the winner of that coveted trophy (the equivalent of SAG’s Best Picture award) was Black Panther.

And the SAGgies didn’t give their Best Actress award to Lady Gaga but to The Wife‘s Glenn Close…she wins again! And Rami Malek won the Best Actor prize, and in so doing is poised to possibly take the Best Actor Oscar, or at the very least give Vice‘s Christian Bale some very stiff competition.

Mahershala Ali again won a Best Supporting Actor trophy for his Green Book performance. He’s obviously winning the Oscar in this category.

Emily Blunt, of all people, won the Best Supporting Actress prize for her performance in A Quiet Place. Who the hell was even fantasizing about Blunt’s all-but-silent turn winning anything at all? If there was any speculation on her behalf it was a smattering of Best Actress buzz for Mary Poppins Returns.

I could say something rude about Kris Tapley‘s prowess of an estimator of Oscar power, but I’ll let it go.

Steven Soderbergh‘s High Flying Bird (Netflix 2.8) is a whipsmart, talk-heavy sports film (written by Moonlight‘s Tarell Alvin McCraney) that may try your patience at first (especially if you’re a professional sports dumb-ass like myself), but which totally comes together in the last third and finally packs an exciting revolutionary punch.

And at the end you’re just sailing, sailing, sailing on Richie Havens crooning “Handsome Johnny”.

It’s a mostly-POC film about tough negotiations during an NBA lockout over the high-value services of a certain big-time basketball rookie (Melvin Gregg), and how his manager-agent Ray (Andre Holland) gradually out-strategizes the NBA skinflints in a way that challenges the whole damn system.

There’s a great line toward the end in which an NBA bigwig says about Holland’s new game plan — “You know what I hate about all this? This is exactly what I’d do if I were him.” Or words to that effect.

You have to pay close attention to the dialogue, and there may be a few slowboats like myself who will prefer to watch it with subtitles when it begins on Netflix, but at the end it finally hits you what a knockout package this is — what a revolutionary narrative, I mean.

It barely contains any footage of basketball playing (just two or three snippets) and is the kind of film that shows lovers putting on their clothes after having sex (Gregg and Zazie Beetz) rather than depicting or suggesting the deed itself — Soderbergh has never been much of a sensualist.

And it’s mainly (THIS MAY BE A SPOILER) about delivering the up-the-league-owners theology of a classic 50-year-old book about the politics and business of sport — Harry Edwards‘ “Revolt of the Black Athlete” (published in September 1969). And yet it feels very right now or very what’s-coming-next.

And it’s probably the most visually striking iPhone-shot film I’ve ever seen — it delivers clean and vivid wide-angle compositions within a Scope aspect ratio, and I for one was going “wow, I love this…it’s A Clockwork Orange within a 2.39 to 1.”

It’ll mean nothing, nothing, NOTHING when and if A Star Is Born wins the SAG ensemble award tonight. Oscar-wise Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga‘s hugely successful musical drama is finished.

After catching yesterday afternoon’s screening of A.J. Eaton and Cameron Crowe‘s David Crosby: Remember My Name, I sent the following email to Crowe:

“Triple grade-A doc…the antithesis of a kiss-ass, ‘what a great artist’ tribute, but at the same time a profoundly moving warts-and-all reflection piece…hugely emotional, meditative, BALDLY PAINFULLY NAKEDLY HONEST…God! There’s a special spiritual current that seeps out when an old guy admits to each and every failing of his life without the slightest attempt to rationalize or minimize…’I was a shit, I was an asshole, how is it that I’m still alive?,’ etc. Straight, no chaser.

“And this isn’t because I’m partial to boomer nostalgia flicks or because so many are being shown here, or because I grew up with the Byrds (12-string twangly-jangly), Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills and Nash and that whole long lyrical–frazzled history. It’s about the tough stuff and the hard rain…about addiction and rage and all but destroying your life, and then coming back semi-clean and semi-restored, but without any sentimentality or gooey bullshit.

“For me David Crosby: Remember My Name has EASILY been the most emotional experience of the festival thus far. Not to mention [Crowe’s] best creative effort since Almost Famous.”

Crowe: “SO HAPPY you were there, thrilled at your reaction. How amazing that Crosby got up there [after the screening] and shared his total shock at what we’d put into the movie. Such a real moment. He was emotionally devastated up there for a good three minutes — I don’t know if you could see that. Felt like the audience wrapped their arms around him at that point, and then he was okay. Amazing.”

From Steve Pond’s Wrap review: “As much as the film celebrates Crosby’s creativity and gazes unflinchingly at his failings, it also functions as a valedictory, almost a requiem of sorts. Think of it as the film version of the final albums made by Leonard Cohen and David Bowie, who made wrenching final statements that they likely knew would be their last.”

Posted by Deadline‘s Mike Fleming: “I had done a long interview with Green Book‘s Mahershala Ali and Viggo Mortensen, where those actors kept saying they found the handle on their characters by listening to a series of audio tapes featuring the actual voices of Dr. Donald Shirley and Tony “Lip” Vallelonga.

“I thought tracking down and publishing them might help swing the narrative of Green Book back to the road trip as they sat in that car together and were the only ones who witnessed the events and the institutional racism and hatred they encountered in the Jim Crow South. I got my hands on these tapes and, with the help of an editor, put them in the digestible soundbites you can hear below.

“It takes a while to get through them, but you might want to do it soon. I got them on the sly, and have no idea if I’ll be told to take these down.”

In other words, listen to these tapes ASAP.

I really don’t care for the kind of wailing emotion, upper-register “aaaahh love you babeeee!” shriek songs favored by pop divas (Lady Gaga, Rhianna), mainly because they have the voices that can handle all that vocal stress.

I’m sorry but I like songs that I can hum or sing along to without a great herculean effort, and lyrics that aren’t necessarily about how deep or heavy or transforming my feelings are, blah blah. Turn it the eff down, will ya?

Incidentally: Bradley Cooper looks better with his longish Jackson Maine do than with his current flat-toppy brush cut.

So @DCfilmgirl and I are in Vegas for the @ladygaga Enigma show and Bradley Cooper just jumped on stage to do “Shallow” live!!! Insane!!! pic.twitter.com/4iYbs61t6q

— Kevin McCarthy (@KevinMcCarthyTV) January 27, 2019

After four up-really-early, to-bed-after-midnight sleeps in a row (Tuesday, 1.22 through Friday, 1.25) and then doing the same yesterday and staying up until 2:30 am, I decided to go absolutely radical this morning and actually get seven hours of sleep. It feels pretty good.

I’ll be filing until 1:30 pm, and then it’s off to Slamdance and Steven Soderbergh‘s High Flying Bird at 3 pm, followed by a 9:45 pm Eccles screening of Dan Gilroy’s Velvet Buzzsaw.

Incidentally: Yesterday morning we (Bob Koehler, Jordan Ruimy and myself) had to move out of our two-bedroom condo and into a one-bedroom-plus-bunk-beds unit. So I had to pack everything up, and that partly meant putting my big tall can of Tigi Bed Head hair spray (which I need because my top-thatch has no body) into my tan carrying bag along with a mash of T-shirts, socks, long johns and whatnot.

When I unpacked the bag at 11:30 pm last night I realized that the can (which had no plastic top) had somehow endured heavy pressure on the spray device, and so the whole can had been emptied and a couple of T-shirts and a pair of brown shoes were soaked or covered with hair-spray gunk. Delightful.

The main lobby of Park City’s Prospector Lodge used to have a nice, homey, slightly-sagging-at-the-seams feeling. Like a friend’s oversized living room. Warm and familiar.

A year or two ago some jerkwad bought the place and removed all the atmosphere. Now it has all the charm of a seen-better-days bus station in Akron or Trenton. Incidentally: The head has a metal door that clangs shut like a prison cell — loudest I’ve ever heard.

After seeing an 11:30 am screening of Untouchable at the Ray, I had to get to the MARC in a hurry for a 2:30 pm showing of A.J. Eaton and Cameron Crowe‘s David Crosby: Remember My Name. I flagged down a cab on Kearns, but the driver made a wrong turn and we didn’t get there until 2:31 pm.

I was feeling really rushed now, and this is when I tend to lose or forget things, when stress levels are high. Sure enough, somewhere between paying the driver and strolling onto the MARC premises I dropped my wallet. By the time I sat in my seat I knew it was gone — beautiful elephant-skin leather, $60 in cash, all the cards, some momentos.

Rather than freak out I decided to watch the Crosby doc (which is great by the way — the most emotionally moving, AA confessional, review-of-a-nearly-wrecked-rock-and-roll-life doc I’ve seen in a long, long while) and hope for the best. With all the alpha volunteers around I figured someone would probably find the wallet and turn it into the lost-and-found. But when the film ended the lost-and-found bin was empty and there were no messages from anyone.

So okay…tough luck but at least I didn’t lose my phone. A drag but I’d survive. I jumped on a bus and called Chase to cancel my cards. Then I decided to drop by the Park Regency to check in, and the instant I walked into the lobby a staffer waved, smiled and said, “We’ve got your wallet!” I’d apparently dropped it in the cab, and the driver had found a Park Regency business card next to the cash. What a wonderful all-is-well feeling. People are kind and thoughtful, etc.

Brief synopsis of Scott Z. Burns‘ The Report, which I saw this afternoon: Senate staffer with a huge honker Daniel Jones (Adam Driver) is assigned the daunting task of leading an investigation into the CIA’s torture policy on Islamic baddies. He has to fight, dodge and weave through a series of challenges, but he finally completes and publishes a damning 525-page public report.

Comment #1: “In the eyes of virtue signallers who attacked Zero Dark Thirty for allegedly endorsing torture (a bullshit notion), Scott Z. Burns’ The Report may be hailed in some quarters as a solemnly moralistic cinematic ZDT antidote.

Comment #2: “But oh, the solemnity! The tone of heroic righteousness! And the musical score that won’t stop reminding you of this. This film is so smugly virtuous it gives you a migraine headache.“

Comment #3: “Furious debate has broken out post-screening about whether or not m Annette Bening‘s Dianne Feinstein wig was made by the same hairdresser who created Steven Van Zandt ‘s ‘Silvio’ wig for The Sopranos.”

Annette Bening as Sen, Dianne Feinstein in Scott Z. Burns’ The Report.