Tonight is Sylvester Stone‘s big-bop tribute at the Santa Barbara Film Festival. And virtually no handicappers are predicting that the Creed costar won’t take the Best Supporting Actor Oscar on 2.28. But what’s the Stallone love basically all about? Why is it such a slam-dunk thing? 

All I can figure is that people love the idea of a guy who’s come full circle and returned to home ground– a guy who started out as a Philadelphia soul man whom everyone was pulling for, and then went astray a bit, and went up and down and lost some of the old mojo, but got it all back by returning to Philly and the lug who launched his career.

40 years ago Sly was a struggling guy near the end of his rope who gloriously broke through with Rocky, and after that he made exactly…what, five or six quality movies during his whole career? Mostly he’s played studly action heroes who glare and seethe and flex their forearms. He tried like hell and did the best he could to stay in the game, but after Rocky the only films he can really and truly be proud of in a quality vein are First Blood (’82), Demolition Man (’93), Judge Dredd (’95), Cop Land (’97) and Creed (’15) (He also scored with some amusing voice work in 1998’s Antz.)

Mainly Sly stayed in his tried-and-true machismo realm and went for the box-office rather than reviews or awards. That’s not a crime, of course, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing that would normally bring an industry audience to their feet.

I got to know Sly a bit from the mid ’80s to early ’90s. I worked under him in ’85 and ’86 when I was employed as a writer/publicist for Bobby Zarem and Dick Delson, who had formed a p.r. partnership and had landed Stallone as their star client. I knew his vibe, hung in his orbit, watched him train and box, visited his home once or twice, did what I was told. But there wasn’t a lot of openness from the guy. He was guarded, sullen. When I was over at his place one evening I noticed an original Francis Bacon painting hanging in his foyer, and I said with some excitement, “Whoa, Francis Bacon!” Stallone’s total reply: “You got it.”

I won’t be catching tonight’s Zoolander 2 all-media at the Arclight due to my obligations to the Santa Barbara Film Festival and particularly the Sylvester Stallone Montecito Award tribute at the Arlington, which begins about nine hours hence. I also missed last week’s Deadpool all-media but I’m fairly certain I’ll hate it. Okay, maybe I won’t.

Last night’s Brie Larson/Skull Island kerfuffle at the Santa Barbara Film Festival stirred a casual interest in this Warner Bros. monster pic, which has been shooting since last October under director Jordan Vogt Roberts (Kings of Summer) and will open in March 2017. It’s basically back to Skull Island for more fun and games, more Jurassic jazz, etc.

I’m told, however, that Kong: Skull Island is set in the early ’70s. It’s basically a Vietnam-era thing (some of the film has been shot in Vietnam), which, I suppose, might bring some cool thematic meat to the table.

And the new Kong is…what, the great-great-great-great grandson of Merian C. Cooper’s original ape, who ravaged Manhattan 80-plus years ago? Is there any awareness or acknowledgement within the realm of the screenplay that Skull Island is the home of the “original” Kong, or is the story starting from scratch?

The answer, I’m told, is (a) forget old Kong because (b) the Kong genesis is not that specific.

You’ll notice I didn’t say Peter Jackson‘s ape as that three-hour-long film has been almost totally discredited. No discipline, no poetry or lyricism to speak of…it occupies the same “what happened?” realm as The Godfather, Part III. Yes, I reviewed it favorably at first but I came to my senses after watching it it a second time.

Thanks again to HE commenter “Mr. Sunset Terra Cotta” (@martyguerre) for yesterday’s business card, which I’m actually thinking of having printed up. Yes, I get it — the William S. Burroughs/David Cronenberg life form alludes to Hollywood Elsewhere’s “insect antennae” but I’d be happier with…I don’t know, something else. An old-fashioned ink pen, a pair of brown lace-up Italian shoes…something less creepy looking.

Last night’s Santa Barbara Film Festival tribute was a double-header — Room‘s Brie Larson and Brooklyn‘s Saoirse Ronan splitting the Outstanding Performer of the Year award. It was a reasonably okay evening, and was at least invigorated by a dramatic last-minute announcement that Larson wouldn’t be able to attend. My initial reaction was “what?” but I gradually realized it wasn’t Larson’s fault.

Brooklyn‘s Saoirse Ronan during last night’s SBIFF tribute.

Room‘s Brie Larson during her Skype chat with moderator Pete Hammond.

Even though her SBIFF plans had been set weeks ago, the producers of Kong: Skull Island suddenly insisted that Larson had to return to Australia a day early, which meant Larson had to catch a 10 pm flight last night. (For what it’s worth I found a Quantas flight that left at 11:30 pm, but she still couldn’t have made it.) So while Larson was able to fit in Monday afternoon’s Oscar luncheon and a Jimmy Kimmel appearance she had to blow off poor Santa Barbara. But she sat for a Skype chat with host Pete Hammond, and that went pretty well.

Ronan showed up live and in-person, and her discussion with Hammond was pleasant enough.

I had to leave just before Ronan’s segment ended but I didn’t hear Hammond mention something interesting, which is that one of her recent films, Nikole Beckwith‘s Stockholm, Pennsylvania, is essentially about the same captive situation that Room is about — a young girl taken prisoner by a guy, kept prisoner for years in a basement, etc.

It also wasn’t mentioned that both Larson and Ronan have adapted a Michael Caine-like approach to their careers — i.e., work often, keep banging ’em out, pocket those paychecks, grab the good stuff when it’s offered but average over two films per year.

Posted two or three hours ago, Nashua Town Hall:

A Bluray 3D Film Archive restoration of Herbert Strock‘s Gog (’54), a little-seen sci-fi thriller that was barely exhibited in 3D before being downgraded to 2D, will be released by Kino Lorber on 3.1. Gog was painstakingly restored by Bob Furmanek and partner Greg Kintz, who began the project in the late ’90s with only a print of the 35mm left side material. The Bluray will include a restoration segment. Hollywood Elsewhere has had its arguments with Furmanek for his belief in cleavering films shot in the mid to late ’50s in order to deliver the despised 1.85:1 aspect ratio. That aside and giving the devil his due, Furmanek has restored Gog within the original 1.66:1 aspect ratio.

Excerpt from 2.8 Matt Zoller Seitz piece on Billy Wilder‘s The Apartment (’60): “Younger viewers may be struck by how engrossing The Apartment still is, considering how lengthy the scenes are (as in a stage play, they have clearly delineated beginnings, middles and ends) and how rarely Wilder panders to short attention spans by cutting to something else. Many of Lemmon’s best scenes are subtly choreographed one-takes that follow Bud through a space as he fusses, frets and mutters. This film does not ‘cover’ its action as so many modern movies and TV shows do, by photographing every scene with multiple cameras and cutting to a closeup of whoever happens to be speaking. The Apartment is directed. Every shot and cut matters. Confident decisions have been made about what’s in the frame and what’s out, who we’re looking at or listening to, and why.

“Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond‘s screenplay is the foundation of this well-told tale. It makes masterly use of set-ups and payoffs, most of them encoded in props, such as the cracked makeup mirror that reveals that Fran is Jeff’s mistress (while also reflecting her shattered self-image); the hundred-dollar bill that Jeff gives Fran, which becomes her wordless suicide note, and the album by Jimmy Lee Kiang, the piano player at Fran and Jeff’s favorite Chinese restaurant, which announces Fran’s presence in Bud’s apartment and explains why she nearly died there. The movie is a masterpiece, structure-wise and otherwise — a rare Best Picture Oscar winner that might actually have been the year’s best picture.”

The Spotlight Bluray pops on 2.23. An HDX version is streamable as a purchase/rental on Vudu right now. The ad art on both sites is a dark detour away from the movie poster, which depicted the Spotlight-ers (Michael Keaton, Mark Ruffalo, Rachel McAdams, et. al.) conferring in a brightly-lit office. The new Bluray art looks like some kind of Robert Ludlum espionage thriller — deep shadows, grim expressions, a sense of tension and maybe danger. McAdams looks anxious; the turtleneck-clad Ruffalo looks like a hard guy in a Jason Bourne film.

In a 1.8.16 Financial Times interview, ex-New York mayor and serious billionaire Michael Bloomberg has stated for the first time that he’s definitely considering a run for the White House. He didn’t officially declare but he’s obviously edging toward that. Bloomberg said he was “looking at all the options” and that he needs to “start putting his name on ballots across the U.S. at the beginning of March.”

Bloomberg apparently intends to run as an independent. If he does this he’ll be the new Ralph Nader. In a three-way race — Clinton vs. Trump vs. Bloomberg — indications are that Bloomberg will probably draw votes from Clinton. Another option is that he could conceivably run as a Republican with an intention to take the nomination away from Trump, but it that’s the secret plan why did he wait so long? In any event he’s ready to spend $1 billion of his own money to fund the possible campaign. Bloomberg is reportedly worth over $35 billion.

“Bloomberg’s entury would radically affect the election,” the FT story notes. “Many experts believe that Mr. Bloomberg would help the Republican nominee by drawing more support from Democrats over Republicans because of his liberal stance on issues such as gun control and the environment. A poll conducted by Bloomberg’s own news organization and the Des Moines Register ahead of the Iowa caucuses found that only nine per cent of Republicans had a favorable view of him, while 17 per cent of likely Democratic voters in the state ​had a favorable opinion.”

In short, if Bloomberg runs as an independent against Trump and Clinton, the odds of Trump winning would surge.

James Dean was born 85 years ago today — 2.8.31. He died 60 and 1/3 years ago, at age 24. Today a 2009 video interview with the late Dennis Stock, whose photo-taking relationship with Dean was the basis of Life, the Anton Corbijn film with Dane Dehaan and Robert Pattinson, was posted on the N.Y. Times website. The author is documentarian David Snider, who was friendly with Stock.

Snider says Life didn’t capture the truth about Dean and Stock’s relationship. “I felt it wasn’t accurate,” Snider writes. “Although it had that mid-50s look and feel, its creators invented a story about a reluctant actor and an annoying, persistent, acerbic photographer. I thought: ‘No, no, no. That’s not really how it happened.’

“In real life, Dennis was a compelling, intense man with passion and respect for his subjects. Dean understood this, and he was intrigued by the craft of photography, too. In fact, he took pictures of Dennis while they were together.”

Last night I sat through Terrence Malick‘s Knight of Cups (Broad Green, 3.4) at Santa Barbara’s Arlington theatre. I didn’t watch or absorb it — I “sat through” it like I was waiting for an overdue bus.  Knight of Cups flatlines.  It’s about warm climes and lassitude and a truly profound lack of effort by everyone involved, particularly Malick.  What a tragic journey he’s been on since The Tree of Life. Self-wanking, anal-cavity-residing…the man is so lost it looks like home to him. And it is a kind of home, I gather, that producers Sarah Green and Nicholas Gonda have seemingly created for the guy. Take your time, Terry…take your sweet-ass time.

Once regarded as one of Hollywood’s great auteurist kings (Badlands, Days of Heaven) but more recently renowned for his whispery mood-trip films (a tendency that began with The Thin Red Line) and for indulging in meditative reveries to a point that the reveries become the whole effing movie, Malick, free to operate within his own cloistered realm, lives to “paint” and dither and go all doodly-doo and mystical and digressive when the mood strikes, which is apparently all the time when he’s shooting.

40 years ago I was convinced Malick had seen the burning bush and was passing along God’s-eye visions, and now look at him.

Knight of Cups is To The Wonder Goes To Southern California with a lot more dough and a greater variety of hot women. They could re-title it Terrence Malick’s Wide, Wide World of Delectable, Half-Dressed, Model-Thin Fuck Bunnies. They could also retitle it Terrence Malick’s Beaches…boy, does he love going to the beach at magic hour and sloshing barefoot through the tides! This meandering dream-doze movie is all beaches, all deserts, all swanky condos and office towers and absurdly arrogant McMansions. And all half-captured moods and fall-away moments and conversational snippets.

Who am I? Why am I so damn lazy? Can I do anything besides wander around and gaze at stuff? Either Bale is on Percocets or I need to drop a Percocet the next time I watch this.