Tapped out on a Park City shuttle:  On the passing of the legendary John Hurt, two of my all-time favorite performances:  the ambitious, duplicitous Richard Rich in Fred Zinneman‘s A Man For All Seasons (’66) and Braddock, the solemn, taciturn assassin in Stephen Frears‘ The Hit (’85).  I loved Hurt’s angularity, that aura of cultivation, that wonderful  sandpaper voice, those intense drill-bit eyes.  And I loved the way he wept like a child when, as Caligula, he was stabbed to death near the end of I, Claudius. Not to mention his legendary chest-fever scene in Ridley Scott‘s Alien (’79).  If only I could post a thought from Guillermo del Toro, who directed Hurt in both Hellboy films.  I hate to admit this, but I’m somehow not recalling his performance in Midnight Express (’78) — he was a fellow prisoner of Brad Davis‘s in that Turkish jail?  Very few will recall his performance as Susannah York‘s professorial, weakish husband in Jerzy Skolimowski‘s The Shout (’78), but he held that film together.

The exotic thrill of tramping through powdery snow drifts and breathing in sub-zero air is gone. I’m sick and tired of bundling up with the extra layers, long johns, jean jacket covered by an overcoat, scarves, gloves and my black cowboy hat. No offense but I want my Southern California temperatures back (my flight leaves early tomorrow afternoon), and I want to hit the balmy Santa Barbara Film Festival. Tonight I’m having an early dinner and then catching an 8:30 pm screening of Trumped: Inside The Biggest Political Upset of All Time, which will air on Showtime in February. Here’s Owen Gleiberman’s Variety review.

Nobody got very excited about Queen of Katwe after it opened last September but that didn’t stop Vanity Fair editors from including Lupita Nyong’o in the company of award-season headliners Emma Stone, Natlie Portman, Amy Adams, etc.

I don’t care if weather.com says it’s 20 degrees outside — it definitely feels more like 5 or 10 right now.

Miguel Arteta’s Beatriz at Dinner, which I caught two or three days ago, has a great premise — a middle-aged, deeply spiritual Latina masseuse (Salma Hayek) has an encounter with a rich, Donald Trump-like monster (John Lithgow) at a small dinner party in Newport Beach, and then things turn rancid over values and politics.

Anyone with half a heart would naturally be on the side of the Mexican-born Beatriz if and when push comes to shove. One also assumes that the pure-of-heart healer will make things uncomfortable if not worse for Lithgow’s Doug Strutt, and well she should. Tongue-lash him! Slash his tires! Which is why the nihilistic finale in Mike White‘s script strongly disappoints.

Beatriz drives down to Newport Beach to give a massage to Cathy (Connie Britton), a rich client. But then Beatriz’s car dies, and so Cathy invites her to stay for the party. She first has to overcome the small-minded objections of her husband (David Warshofsky) because the dinner is basically about business. The guests are a smarmy Orange Country couple (Chloe Sevigny, Jay Duplass) along with Strutt and his wife (Amy Landecker).

But then Beatriz starts blowing it by ignoring the conservational flow and trying to pass along a moral or spiritual lesson whenever there’s a lull. Then she starts to drink too much wine. Then she throws a cell phone at Strutt over his disdain for society’s lessers. Then she insists on playing a song on her guitar. And then she begins to wonder if she might have a moral duty to stab Strutt in the neck. Then she has some more wine.

Two days ago a pair of La la Land hit pieces appeared — one from The Conversation‘s Will Brooker, another by Jon Caramanica for the N.Y. Times. There was a third posted two weeks ago (1.11) by USA Today‘s Kelly Lawler.

La La Land is not in any kind of trouble — zip. This is just standard Phase Two nitpick pushback. La La Land is winning the Best Picture Oscar whether the naysayers like it or not, and the fact that it’s become a huge financial success — $93 million domestic, $177 million worldwide — is icing on the cake. Plus it understands itself, knows how to deal the cards, delivers the emotional moments just so. The people who’ve said it’s somehow ungenuine are just pissheads.

La La Land doesn’t fit my idea of fantasy or escapism except during (a) the falling-in-love scene, which is an obvious fit in that context, and (b) the bittersweet fantasy sequence at the very end, which isn’t really fantasy-escapism as much as a sorrowful “if only” moment. The rest of it is about frustration, anxiety, not getting there, powerlessness.  It’s sharp and catchy throughout, but is mainly about how tough and soul-draining it all is.

MCN’s David Poland posted a pretty good response to the naysayers two days ago also. Here are some of the better portions:

“Don’t forget that this is [director] Damien Chazelle’s third feature, and the second — Whiplash — grossed just $13 million domestically. A musical with original music and characters is enormously rare. Before La La Land the list of original musicals that have grossed over $50 million domestic were Enchanted, The Muppets and Muppets Most Wanted. And none of these truly qualified as musicals. They are traditional movies with songs.

Steve Schmidt, who rode shotgun on John McCain‘s 2008 Presidential campaign, has, by my yardstick, always seemed like one of the more likable, media-savvy Republicans out there. After watching this clip last night, I damn near fell in love with the guy. (Woody Harrelson played him in Game Change.)

Take 90 seconds and listen to Steve Schmidt on truth. pic.twitter.com/GEBfUJlTNp

— Bradd Jaffy (@BraddJaffy) January 27, 2017

“Sandra Oh and Anne Heche delivers knock-down, drag-out poundings not once but three times in Catfight, indie writer-director Onur Tukel‘s razor-toothed takedown of obscene privilege in a world indifferent to real pain. While the broad political commentary is beyond obvious, the satire of ugly entitlement draws blood, thanks to balls-to-the-wall performances from the adversarial leading ladies.” — from David Rooney‘s Hollywood Reporter review, filed from the 2016 Toronto Film Festival.

Derek Wayne Johnson‘s John Avildsen: King of the Underdogs will screen twice at the Santa Barbara Int’l Film Festival (2.1. thru 2.11). Avildsen’s peak achievement years happened in the early to mid ’70s — Joe (’70), Save The Tiger (’73) and the original Rocky (’76). That was his glory period, tapping into the zeitgeist, as good as it got. Joe was his rawest and most explosive — a low-budgeter that caught the hardhat vs. hippies thing exactly at the right moment. I re-watched Rocky in high-def last year and found it even better than I’d remembered. Save The Tiger probably hasn’t aged as well but it has its moments. Avildsen directed three others that were at least decent — The Formula (’80), Neighbors (’81) and Lean On Me (’89).  Avildsen is a contemporary of Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson‘s, born in the mid ’30s, baby bust. Very few directors can point to a respectable roster of grade-A films made over two decades; fewer still can say “I made three…okay, two that really rocked the culture.” Avildsen can say that.

Earlier today I answered some questions from Decider‘s Joe Reid (i.e., “The Oscar Grouch”). Nothing I haven’t expressed here in similar terms, but it was nice to take a quick break from my column duties:

The following texts were exchanged last June between myself and Emily, a woman who stayed in my place and fed the cats while I was in New York, Paris, Cannes and Prague. Everything seemed fine at first, but all that changed when I got home. All texts are verbatim:

Emily [sent in late May]: “The cats really miss you! Aura meows no matter how much I pet her and Zac does too. They both accept cuddles but they know it’s not you. Last few nights Zack stays out so late that I fall asleep before I can catch him inside and lock the door. It’s a good thing you’re coming home soon, they sure miss you.”

Wells [a few days later]: “Margarita should be contacting you about coming by Wednesday morning or afternoon. My plane hits the LAX tarmac around 4 pm. I’ll be at the place by 6 pm or thereabouts.”

Emily: “Sounds good. I’ll be leaving Wednesday morning and heading to work so we will miss each other so Margarita will probably have to let herself in.

Wells: “Just remember to not lock the top bolt lock — lock only the doorknob lock — and remember to check under the [redacted] to make sure the blue doorknob key is still there. That’s the key Margarita uses.”

Emily: “Yes, I remember.”

Wells: “How are the plants by the way? Any Fed Ex or UPS shipments?

Emily: “Plants are kinda dead like. I watered but they didn’t really bloom. There are some packages. Large boxes and envelopes.”

Wells: “The plants are kinda ‘dead’?”

Emily: “No, I don’t mean dead. Like they’re not in bloom. I’m sorry, I just woke up. You’ll be home soon, all good. Yay.”

Hollywood Elsewhere loves Icarus, the Russian doping doc that Netflix picked up two or three days ago. I’ve no striking observations or insights to add to the general chorus, but I can at least say that after a slow start Icarus turns into a highly gripping account of real-life skullduggery and paranoia in the sense of the classic William S. Burroughs definition of the term — i.e., “knowing all the facts.”

As noted, Bryan Fogel‘s two-hour film starts off as a doping variation of Morgan Spurlock‘s Super Size Me, and then suddenly veers into the realm of Laura Poitras‘ Citizenfour.

It doesn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know or suspect, mainly that (a) the use of performance-enhancing drugs is very common in sports (everyone does it, Lance Armstrong was the tip of the iceberg) and (b) there isn’t a dime’s worth of difference between Vladmir Putin and his top henchmen and the Al Capone mob of 1920s Chicago — lying, cheating sociopaths of the highest or lowest order (take your pick).

I was a little worried during the Super Size Me portion, in which bicyclist Fogel and Russian scientist Grigory Rodchenkov embark on a project with the goal of outsmarting athletic doping tests. It’s interesting at first, but it goes on too long. After a while I was muttering “so when does the Russian doping stuff kick in?”

Suddenly it does. Rodchenkov gradually admits to Fogel that he orchestrated a Putin-sanctioned doping program that gave the Russian athletes an advantage at the 2014 Sochi Olympic Games, which led to the winning of 13 gold medals. But in November ’15 Rodchenkov’s laboratory was suspended by the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) following a report alleging state-sponsored doping in Russia, and soon after Putin and the bad guys were looking to lay the blame on Rodchenkov. (Or possibly kill him.)

Keith Olbermann‘s latest Resistance piece contains a completely accurate, clear-eyed assessment of the mentality of Donald Trump — the man is a delusional loon. He makes stuff up in his head, insists upon the veracity of his imaginings, and then announces he’s going to have said imaginings fully investigated (i.e., those millions of fraudulent Clinton voters) and therefore proved. Olbermann is not exaggerating — we are truly living in the realm of Fletcher Knebel‘s “The Night of Camp David.”