Filmstruck will die as planned on 11.29, but the Criterion Collection will become a stand-alone streaming service in spring 2019. I guess the petition had an impact after all. So I’ll get my money back soon and then I’ll re-invest it in the Criterion Channel…right?

From the release: “The Criterion Channel will be picking up where the old service left off — (a) programming director spotlights, (b) actor retrospectives featuring major Hollywood and international classics, and (c) hard-to-find discoveries from around the world, complete with special features like commentaries, behind-the-scenes footage, and original documentaries.

“Our library will also be available through WarnerMedia’s new consumer platform when it launches late next year, so once both services are live, Criterion fans will have even more ways to find the films they love.

“We will be starting from scratch with no subscribers, so we’ll need all the help we can get. The most valuable thing you can do to help now is go to Criterion.com/channel and sign up to be a Charter Subscriber, then tell your friends to sign up too. We need everyone who was a FilmStruck subscriber or who’s been tweeting and signing petitions and writing letters to come out and to sign up for the new service. We can’t do it without you!”

I’m very sad and sorry about the passing of William Goldman, whom I respected enormously as a screenwriter and book author, and whom I actually knew on a personal basis.

We were hardly “close” — we never talked about the difficulty of writing or women problems or anything personal. But I felt that I genuinely knew Bill as a human being, at least to some degree. I always felt settled and relaxed in his presence. And he seemed to have a certain regard for me also. At least to the extent that he took me to lunch four or five times, and always at the same elegant Upper East Side eatery that was near his apartment.

I felt profoundly honored that the writer of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Hot Rock (one of my all-time favorite ’70s films), Marathon Man and All The President’s Men read and admired my column. I once told myself “Jesus, I’ve gotta be doing something right if Goldman likes what I’m doing.”

We began our occasional correspondence (a phone call now and then, back-and-forth emails when something had happened) sometime in the early to mid ’90s, or when I was writing and reporting for Entertainment Weekly and the L.A. Times Syndicate. But we didn’t actually sit down and break bread until ’06 or ’07, or after Goldman became a regular Hollywood Elsewhere reader.

The only time our relationship hit a ditch was when I told Goldman that I didn’t much care for Hearts of Atlantis (’01), the Anthony Hopkins film based on a Stephen King novel. He didn’t speak to me for several months after that.

He always called me “Jeffrey” — never Jeff. He invited me up to his place once, and I remember there was a kind of shrine to Butch Cassidy as you walked through the main door. And who could blame him?

The last time I saw Goldman was at a press luncheon at 21, maybe six or seven years ago. He was sitting at a table with Joan Didion. The room was noisy and chattery and it was hard to say anything that mattered, but I belted out a hale and hearty “hey, Bill!” He looked at me with a slight smile and a slight nod. And that was it. We didn’t correspond again. And I’m sorry about that.

There’s a DVD documentary about Gunga Din, and Goldman’s commentary about that 1939 film is so eloquent when he explains why some people are so moved by that film, and particularly by the “stupid courage” shown at the very end by Sam Jaffe‘s titular character.

Famous quote: “I [don’t] like my writing. I wrote a movie called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and I wrote a novel called The Princess Bride and those are the only two things I’ve ever written, not that I’m proud of, but that I can look at without humiliation.”

Why did the Spirit Awards nominations ignore Melissa McCarthy‘s quaking, straight-from-within, note-perfect performance in Will You Ever Forgive Me?? Seriously — whats up with that? Are they nuts?

Best Feature: Eighth Grade, First Reformed, If Beale Street Could Talk, Leave No Trace, You Were Never Really Here. HE fave: tie between First Reformed and You Were Never Really Here. Will win: First Reformed.

Best Director: Debra Granik, Leave No Trace; Barry Jenkins, If Beale Street Could Talk; Tamara Jenkins, Private Life; Lynne Ramsay, You Were Never Really Here; Paul Schrader, First Reformed. HE fave: Paul Schrader. Will win: Paul Schrader.

Best First Feature: Hereditary, Sorry to Bother You, The Tale, We The Animals, Wildlife. HE fave: Tie between Hereditary and We The Animals.

Best Female Lead: Glenn Close, The Wife; Toni Collette, Hereditary, Elsie Fisher, Eighth Grade; Regina Hall, Support The Girls; Helena Howard, Madeline’s Madeline; Carey Mulligan, Wildlife. HE fave: Four-way tie between Melisaa McCarthy not nominated but should have been), Glenn Close, Toni Collette and Carey Mulligan. Will win: Glenn Close.

Best Male Lead: John Cho, Searching; Daveed Diggs, Blindspotting; Ethan Hawke, First Reformed; Christian Malheiros, Socrates; Joaquin Phoenix, You Were Never Really Here. HE fave: Ethan Hawke. Will win: Ethan Hawke.

Best Supporting Female: Kayli Carter, Private Life; Tyne Daly, A Bread Factory; Regina King, If Beale Street Could Talk; Thomasin Harcourt McKenzie, Leave No Trace; J. Smith-Cameron, Nancy. HE fave: Kayli Carter. Will win: Regina King.

Best Supporting Male: Raúl Castillo, We the Animals, Adam Driver, BlacKkKlansman, Richard E. Grant, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Josh Hamilton, Eighth Grade; John David Washington, Monsters and Men. HE fave: Richard E. Grant. Will win: Richard E. Grant.

Best Screenplay: Richard Glatzer (Writer/Story By), Rebecca Lenkiewicz & Wash Westmoreland, Colette; Nicole Holofcener & Jeff Whitty, Can You Ever Forgive Me?; Tamara Jenkins, Private Life; Boots Riley, Sorry to Bother You; Paul Schrader, First Reformed. HE fave: Tie between First Reformed and Can You Ever Forgive Me?. Will win: First Reformed.

It hit me yesterday that Josie Rourke, who made her bigtime feature directing debut with Mary, Queen of Scots, has been absent from the Hollywood realm since Mary opened in late ’18. There are reasons for that, of course. One is that people like me were nearly driven to tears by Mary, an overbearing exercise in woke presentism.

“It Hurts To Watch This Film,” posted on 11.16.18: Josie Rourke‘s Mary, Queen of Scots is a slog and a drag — a hard-to-follow, sometimes infuriating attempt to make a 16th Century tale of conflict between willful cousins (the titular, flinty Mary vs. Queen Elizabeth of England) into something relevant to the convulsive culture of 2018.

I found it a slog because I didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone, and because the damp air (which wafted out from the screen) and chilly-looking Scottish exteriors made me want to wrap myself in scarves and sweaters. Why would anyone want to live in Scotland in the first place? It’s all fog and peat and stone castles. I just wanted to build a fire and huddle.

I spent the entire 124-minute running time trying to understand why I hated this film almost immediately. Have you ever walked into a crowded room and decided on the spot that you really don’t care for the vibe of a certain person standing near the punch bowl? It was like that. Within minutes I was seething with irritation. There were several factors, I gradually realized.

I felt alienated by Rourke’s attempt to impose a woke social atmosphere upon 16th Century Scotland and England — by applying a strong women-vs.-sexist pig narrative and going with multicultural casting choices. I’m not saying it’s invalid to adopt this approach (knock yourselves out), but I did find it numbing to sit through.

Early on I was telling myself I need to see Charles Jerrot‘s same-titled 1971 version with Vanessa Redgrave and Glenda Jackson. I don’t recall this film at all, but I was muttering to myself that it has to be better than the newbie…it HAS to be.

I resented having to wade through the thick Scottish accents, and realized early on that I’d have to wait for a subtitled screener to understand all of the plot intrigues. It’s one of those historical flicks in which nothing is fully clear until you go to Wikipedia and read the actual histories.

I admired Saoirse Ronan‘s feisty performance as the titular character (she’s always good) but hated the blatant “acting” by the secondary characters. Every actor explicitly conveys how their character is feeling about what’s going on — whether they’re pleased, unhappy, sad, suspicious, unsettled or whatever — and after 15 minutes of this I was ready to scream. Please, assholes…stop “acting”!

I felt especially hostile to James McArdle‘s performance as the Earl of Moray, Mary’s resentful half-brother. My second most despised performance was Jack Lowden‘s as Lord Darnley — he preens, he poses, he goes down on Mary, etc.

Beau Willimon‘s screenplay is overly complex and labyrnthian — I gave up trying to follow all the twists, turns and betrayals, especially toward the end.

A Trump-appointed federal judge has ordered the White House to restore the press credentials of Jim Acosta of CNN. Obviously a huge win for journalism in a mano e mano, balls-to-the-wall confrontation with a totalitarian brute. The decision from Judge Timothy J. Kelly may be appealed by Trump lawyers, but they know it’s a losing brief. CNN argued that Acosta’s free speech and due process rights were violated when Trump had his “hard pass’ revoked; Trump attorneys replied that President Cheeto should have the option to bar any White House journalist he chooses (i.e., pisses him off) in order to guard against overly aggressive questioning.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was slowly making my way through a snow-and-ice storm in Fairfield County, the Wall Street Journal’s Tripp Mickle and Erin Schwartzel reported that Apple is teaming with A24 to make “independent” features. Tweeted by Washington Post entertainment guy Steven Zeitchik: “A24-Apple is about as smart as entertainment partnerships get. Apple just found a fast-track into the prestige-film game, and A24 has another financial backstop in case its hedge-fund backers go cold. Something for everybody.” If and when the Apple-A24 partnership generates an Oscar-worthy film, HE trusts that somebody at Apple will advise engaging with opinionated, longstanding, elite-eyeball sites (i.e., URLs that producers, directors and studio guys actually read) during Oscar season. Just a thought.

I experienced a drop-out moment yesterday while watching Mary, Queen of Scots. It was when I realized that Josie Rourke‘s 16th Century epic would be adopting an historically woke, Hamilton-like approach to casting. I never knew, for example, that black dudes had networked their way into the upper chambers of English and Scottish government in the late 1500s. I’d read that Henry Stuart, aka Lord Darnley, was an alcoholic, but I never knew he was bisexual. And I never knew that Elizabeth Hardwick, a friend and confidante of Elizabeth I, was Asian.

I didn’t stop watching Rourke’s film, but I immediately stopped believing in it.

It also depressed me to consider that if I post any kind of objection to a multicultural casting approach, to the idea that militant 21st Century”woke”-ness was just as prevalent in olden times as it is today, that I might pay a certain price. For there are twitter fanatics out there who will suspect me of harboring the wrong kind of objections to such an approach. We are truly living through Orwellian times — an era in which concepts of historical accuracy must always be subordinate to wokeness, and in which William S. Burroughs‘ “brain police” are constantly monitoring the situation.

It was screenwriter William Goldman (Marathon Man, All The President’s Men, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) who first explained what a “drop-out” moment is — i.e., when something happens in a film that just makes you collapse inside, that makes you surrender interest and faith in the ride that you’re on. You might stay in your seat and watch the film to the end, but you’ve essentially “left” the theatre. The movie had you and then lost you, and it’s not your fault.

Goldman explained in detail how Sofia Coppola‘s Lost in Translation caused him to drop out. He observed that as the film begins, Bill Murray‘s character “has just been in a movie where there is a fabulous vehicle chase, buses destroyed, explosions and, we find out, he did his own driving.” Murray, in short, “is playing a famous action star.

“Look, I started following him over a quarter-century ago, on Saturday Night Live Live and in the movies, from Meatballs on, and maybe in real life he can kick the crap out of Harrison Ford and maybe stripped he has pecs that make Arnold Schwarzenegger look flat-chested — but I do not believe this, not for a New York minute.

“Murray is a comedy star. He’s goofy and he fumbles, and the minute you try and shove this other persona at me, make me think he is the toughest guy on the planet, sorry, I do not go there. And I stopped, from this moment on, believing in this flick. And when belief goes, caring is right behind.”

Look at Benicio del Toro as he chats with BUILD’s Ricky Camilleri — he’s a ’50s beatnik, a Russian revolutionary, a wolfman, a Silicon Valley malcontent. I know Benicio very slightly, and I’ve heard the stories. Deep cat, wicked laugh, hungry poet, a man of appetites. Or, if you will, “the thinking man’s Hollywood badass.”

I was persuaded that Benicio was extra-level 24 years ago. That’s when I first saw him as Kevin Spacey‘s outgoing assistant in George Huang‘s Swimming With Sharks. In January ’95 I saw him in The Usual Suspects at Sundance, enjoyed the hell out of his Fred Fenster riff in that police line-up scene, and the rest was history.

Three personal encounters: (a) In April ’95 I persuaded Benicio (plus Bryan Singer, Elizabeth Shue, Lara Flynn Boyle, Gregg Araki, Don Murphy, et. al.) to pose for a Los Angeles magazine piece about the new neo-noir. Benicio didn’t want to pose with a gun, and I sided with him — I felt his pain. A low-key argument with my editor ensued; (b) A brief “hey” at West L.A.’s Lazer Blazer; (c) I next ran into Benicio at Gare du Nord on 1.1.00 — the day after the big Millennial new year. Standing on the platform with a suitcase, cool as a cucumber….”yo!”

I’ve no argument with Benicio being the new Lee Marvin or Warren Oates. Why have these analogies surfaced? Because critics are hugely impressed with Benicio’s Richard Matt in Ben Stiller‘s Escape at Dannemora (Showtime, 11.18). Me too, although I’ve only seen two episodes’ worth. I’ll be working on the remainder this weekend.

Nobody is more LQTM than myself, but I burst out laughing when I read about an Australian father who’s livid over a local grocery store screwing up a birthday cake for his three-year-old son.

An 11.14 N.Y. Post story by By Lia Eustachewich reports that Shane Hallford “ordered the cake from a Woolworths store in Tamworth, New South Wales, [last] Sunday, three days before his son Mason’s big day. The sheet cake — which cost a whopping $49 — came with a special set of instructions. “I explained to them we wanted a frog theme, as my son loves frogs,” Hallford wrote on Facebook. “They told me it could be done, no worries at all.”

Look at this cake — some doofus actually calculated this would put a smile on some kid’s face. People can be so mediocre, so asinine. If David Lynch were to stage a kid’s birthday party, this is the cake he’d want to use.

Armie Hammer was spot-on when he tweeted a couple of days ago that he was (a) “so touched by all of the celebrities posting pictures of themselves with Stan Lee“, (b) that there’s “no better way to commemorate an absolute legend than putting up a picture of yourself” and (c) “posting a selfie makes his death about you and how cool you felt taking a picture with him.”

For a guy who always seems to say bland things during press junkets and whatnot, I was suddenly impressed by Hammer’s moxie. He was pointing a finger at relentless selfie narcissism, etc. Hear hear!

Then Jeffrey Dean Morgan disagreed and called Hammer an “asshat,” and the 32-year-old costar of On The Basis of Sex totally caved. He said he was wrong for “inadvertently” offending “many who were genuinely grieving the loss of a true icon,” and that he “want[s] to apologize from the bottom of my heart and will be working on my Twitter impulse control.”

No offense, but Hollywood Elsewhere is no longer impressed by Armie Hammer.

I just finished watching an 11.15 Young Turks report (live just recently) in which Cenk Uygur and Ana Kasparian were claiming there was and is something sketchy about TMZ’s report about Michael Avenatti being arrested for domestic violence. Avenatti was arrested, but Uygur and Kasparian appeared to be saying that a good part of the story was bogus, and that TMZ’s Harvey Levin, a rightie who’s presumedly in the tank for Donald Trump, had basically pushed an unsubstantiated hit piece on Avenatti and that TMZ’s cred is shot because of this. Kasparian also apologized for passing along the TMZ story yesterday without comment or questions.

I don’t have all the facts but consider the following post by Variety‘s Nate Nikolai, which appeared yesterday afternoon (11.14, 3:30 pm): “TMZ first reported that Avenatti’s estranged wife filed a report with the LAPD after the alleged incident occurred on Tuesday. However, in a statement to BuzzFeed News, attorneys for Avenatti’s estranged wife, Lisa Storie-Avenatti, contradicted TMZ’s report, asserting that she was not present in Avenatti’s apartment on the date of the alleged incident.

“My client and I have reviewed the TMZ article alleging that my client, Lisa Storie-Avenatti, has been injured and that Michael Avenatti has been arrested as a result of some incident that occurred between them. This article is not true as it pertains to my client,” the statement said. “Ms. Storie-Avenatti was not subject to any such incident on Tuesday night. Further, she was not at Mr. Avenatti’s apartment on the date that this alleged incident occurred. My client states that there has never been domestic violence in her relationship with Michael and that she has never known Michael to be physically violent toward anyone.”

I was feeling like Scatman Crowthers in that third-act Shining blizzard, driving from Denver’s Stapleton Airport up to the Overlook Hotel.