Throughout last night’s Modern Masters tribute in Santa Barbara, Denzel Washington frequently referred to past collaborators not just in terms of their talent or genius but in terms of career oomph and creative power. “So-and-so director was coming off this or that successful film at the time and was really cooking with steam,” he said at least two or three times. It’s not just how good a director is, he was saying, or how big this director was in the past or might be in the future, but who he/she is at the current moment.

If you wanted to work with Alfred Hitchcock, he meant, you needed to team up during his legendary hot-streak period between Strangers on a Train (’51) and The Birds (’63), but not after Marnie (’64), which was the beginning of the downturn.

When the conversation turned to his brilliant performance in Jonathan Demme‘s Philadelphia (’93) and what the collaborative energy with director Jonathan Demme was like, Denzel offered the usual type of blah-blah answer. Then he said, “Where is Demme?” — i.e., what’s happened to him because he’s obviously no longer the hot-streak guy he was in the ’80s and ’90s.

Moderator Leonard Maltin chimed in with some blah-blah response (“He’s fine, he’s working on a project”), but Denzel had pushed the hard-truth button — the once-great Demme, now 72, has been in a kind of eclipse since his last formidable feature, Rachel Getting Married, opened a little more than eight years ago.

Over the least 13 or 14 years Demme has basically become a documentarian (The Agronomist, Neil Young: Heart of Gold, Man from Plains, Neil Young Trunk Show, I’m Carolyn Parker, Neil Young Journeys, What’s Motivating Hayes, Justin Timberlake + The Tennessee Kids) who occasionally dips his toe into features.

Rachel, a low-budgeter in which Anne Hathaway gave an award-worthy performance as a neurotic with an addictive past, was the last time Demme was in the big game. I’m sorry but nobody paid any real attention to A Master Builder (’13) and Ricki and the Flash (’15) was decidedly minor, a fact that was signalled by TriStar’s decision to open it in August.

Demme’s essential period lasted about 13 years — Melvin and Howard (’80), Swing Shift (’84), Something Wild (’86), Swimming to Cambodia (’87), Married to the Mob (’88), The Silence of the Lambs (’91 — his biggest success) and finally Philadelphia (’93),

Things started to gradually deflate from then on. Beloved (’98), The Truth About Charlie (’02…meh), The Manchurian Candidate (’04…not half bad but it couldn’t overcome the exalted reputation of John Frankenheimer‘s 1962 version). And then came Rachel, Demme’s first “here I am again and this is what I can do” flick since Philadelphia.

I was in a heavily medicated cold fog during last night’s Santa Barbara Film Festival tribute to the great Denzel Washington. I was in the fifth row and paying attention, but at the same time in my own zone, a little bleary and weary. I was in such shitty shape that when it came time to take some video of Denzel as he walked up to the lecturn to accept his Maltin Modern Masters award, I couldn’t hold the damn camera as steadily as I usually do. Damn sniffles, runny nose, inflamed sinuses. I tried to get a Vitamin B-12 shot at a local clinic but the doctor said “we don’t just give B-12 shots for people who want to feel good.” I said “I don’t want to feel good — I’m trying to overpower my damn cold.” I felt so cruddy that I went right back to the hotel after the Denzel event ended — no after-party.

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From Remember The Titans Wikipage synopsis: “Just before the state semi-finals, Yoast (Will Paton) is told by the chairman of the school board that he will be inducted into the Hall of Fame after the Titans lose one game, implying he wants Boone to be dismissed over his race. During the game, it becomes apparent that the referees are biased against the Titans. Upon seeing the chairman and other board members in the audience looking on with satisfaction, Yoast realizes they’ve rigged the game and warns the head official that he will go to the press and expose the scandal unless the game is officiated fairly. The Titans nonetheless win, but Yoast is told by the chairman that his actions have resulted in his loss of candidacy for induction.”

Starting at 3:40, Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil, Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson and Variety‘s Tim Gray begin discussing the Best Actor mano e mano between Fences‘ Denzel Washington vs. Manchester By The Sea‘s Casey Affleck. And for over four minutes all they talk about is Denzel — he’s got the momentum, choosing him will send a message to Trump Nation about inclusion (if DW wins he’ll have three acting Oscars — that’s inclusion!), the industry loves him, Troy Maxson was a seriously meaty character, etc.

The Gang of Four never even discusses Affleck or his performance…nothing. By the measure of their interest or enthusiasm Affleck could be a wooden carving. O’Neil doesn’t allude to the thing that I’m not going to acknowledge but which has probably chipped away at Affleck’s support — he doesn’t even mention it! At one point Thompson says “not to take anything alway from Casey” — that’s the only time his name ever escapes.

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“You were right and I was wrong. (beat, beat) About the horses, the Lipizzaners. They are from Spain and not Portugal.”

Daily Beast contributor Michael Musto has chatted with an “anonymous Oscar voter” about likes and dislikes among the nominees. Whenever these articles run (The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg started the trend), people always call the Oscar voter in question a muttonhead, a barbarian, a fool or an old fart, etc. Musto himself says the guy he spoke to “deserves an award for the surprising things he had to say” — surprising as in clueless or idiotic. You can tell the voter is long of tooth because he doesn’t recognize that Justin Hurwitz‘s La La Land score is quite good and hummable, and because he references Singin’ In The Rain. At least he has his own views and isn’t asking his secretary or housekeeper to tell him which names to fill in, etc. I for one completely agree with the guy about Toni Erdmann and The Salesman.

If somehow Arnold Schwarzenegger and Donald Trump could actually switch jobs, I for one would be delighted. Who wouldn’t? During his tenure as California governor Schwarzenegger showed himself to be a sensible, practical, non-crazy Republican. Was he as good for the state as Jerry Brown? No, but if I could install A.S. in the White House by clapping three times, I would definitely do that.

“…but not everyone prints them in a book.” — Ochan Powell speaking about husband William, author of “The Anarchist Cookbook,” in Charlie Siskel‘s American Anarchist:

From Jessica Kiang‘s 9.11.16 Variety review:

“In 1970, at 19 years of age, William Powell wrote the infamous bomb-making manual and anti-authoritarian tract ‘The Anarchist Cookbook‘, and in his compelling but ultimately sanctimonious documentary American Anarchist, director Charlie Siskel insists that Powell repeatedly berate himself for it.

“What starts out as a potted political history of a turbulent time and a righteously confrontational investigation into intentionality and personal moral culpability for the actions of others (and whether such things have a statute of limitations) turns into a self-righteously insistent harangue that leaves an especially sour taste in light of Powell’s sudden passing in July, just a few months after these interviews were filmed.

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The ultimate heat-generating, blogaroo-friendly, 10-day award-season gathering kicks off tonight — Nick the Gr…sorry, Roger Durling‘s Santa Barbara Film Festival. Tonight’s opening event (kicking off at 8 pm) is a Modern Master award tribute for Denzel Washington, whose recent SAG win suggested that Casey Affleck‘s fait accompli Best Actor Oscar might not be a fait accoimpli.

Could Denzel snatch it? I kinda doubt it but maybe. I suspect the SAG thing was an anomaly, but you tell me.

Hollywood Elsewhere drove up yesterday via the scenic coastal route, which took 150 minutes or so but was well worth it. I’m bunking in room #236 at the Fess Parker Doubletree, and incidentally coping with a cold — Vitamin C carpet bombing, antihistamines, Alka Seltzer daytime, Vitamin B-12 shot at 5 pm.

Taken from room #236 at Fess Parker Doubletree — Wednesday, 2.1, 6:45 pm.

This question is being posed at least two years too early, but who has the better shot at the 2020 Democratic Presidential nomination, Cory Booker or Gavin Newsom?

As predicted, as expected, a certain needling presence in the HE realm has called out yesterday’s Moonlight riff (“Moonlight in the Ozarks“) for stating that a big part of Moonlight‘s success with critics and industry types is that it’s black and gay, and that it wouldn’t have done half as well if it had been about some rural gay kid from the Ozarks. The needling presence accused me of expressing myself in a racially incorrect manner. Here’s my reply, sent a few minutes ago:

Do you keep a hickory stick at home to beat people like me with…you know, people who don’t get it the way you do?

You know that Moonlight, which I’ve admired all along as far as it goes, would be considered a marginal film at best, and certainly not a Best Picture contender, if the lead protagonist was a gay white-trash kid/teen/older guy from the Ozarks. You know this and you lie all the same.

You know that a certain carte blanche NY & LA p.c. mindset exists regarding any and all black, gay, lesbian, transgender, fat-shamed or Native-American characters in movies. You know it, and yet you lie and try to give me grief because I speak plainly and frankly about these matters rather than put on my p.c. ballet shoes and tippy-toe around them.

Moonlight is very good for what it is, but it’s on the slight side. It really is — it’s not a full-boat movie as much as a sketch, a concept, a less-is-more exercise. It’s one of those films that feels like a short story and expands when you think back on it (which, granted, is always a mark of something exceptional or at least rooted) but there’s still not a whole lot of “there” there.

Journalist pal #1 (who’s gay): “I hated it.” Journalist pal #2 (who’s straight): “It’s not gay enough.”

The early life of a “soft” kid, Chiron (Alex Hibbert, Ashton Sanders), who’s lonely, scared and huddled, is influenced by two factors — a kindly local drug dealer (Mahershala Ali) who briefly provides some much-needed paternal attention and affection, and in his mid teens by a kid (Jharrel Jerome) whom Charon is drawn to and who winds up giving the teenaged Charon (i.e., Sanders) a life-altering handjob on the beach.

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You’re not allowed to say or even think this, but I’d like to offer a mild, no-big-deal hypothesis. If Barry Jenkins had decided for whatever perverse reason to (a) transpose Tarell Alvin McCraney‘s “In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue” from its Miami setting to the Ozark mountain region of southern Missouri, and decided to cast white rural types (yokel accent, under-educated, Trumpian beliefs) as the three manifestations of the Charon character but (b) still deliver an exquisite, humanistic film in terms of the directing, writing and performances…would Moonlight be as much of a thing?

The answer, of course, is that the Ozark version of Moonlight almost certainly wouldn’t become a Best Picture contender — face it. It might not have even played Telluride. Because there is considerable disdain among journalists, industry hipsters and Academy members for yokel culture right now, just as there is considerable support (at least in the initial film-festival stages) for almost any film focusing on African-American and/or gay characters. What am I saying? As good as Moonlight is and always will be, it solidified its award-season cred because the characters, culture and general Miami milieu were recognized as right and proper by the p.c. cool kidz.