My experience with Danny Boyle‘s Steve Jobs (Universal 10.9) has been both a charge and a puzzlement. I fell in love with Aaron Sorkin‘s jackhammer script when I read it last summer, but I didn’t like Boyle’s version as much when I saw it in Telluride. Sorkin’s dialogue had flown off the page and sunk into my system like pure cocaine. I had such a great time with it that I convinced myself that the film would come together perfectly if the director just gets out of the way and shoots it with top-tier actors. That’s what Boyle has more or less done, and yet somehow the infuriating, obnoxious dickishness of Steve Jobs’ character seemed much more palatable on the page than it does when performed by Michael Fassbender. And what felt pungent and drill-bitty in the script feels repetitive and hammered in the film.

It’s a month later and Steve Jobs is opening this Friday, and I feel I need to give it another shot at tonight’s all-media Arclight screening. Because I’ve been telling myself that the reason I wasn’t knocked out after seeing it in Telluride (I called it “more impressively conceived and poundingly ambitious than affecting or, truth be told, likable”) was because of my own blockage. Not Boyle’s or Fassbender’s fault, but mine. Because for all the difficulty, this is a movie about what genius often behaves like and feels like. About how life-changing things come about. And that’s not nothing. So what’s my problem?

The film is basically a dialogue-driven, three-chapter stage piece set during three launches of three Jobs products — the ’84 Macintosh, the ’88 NeXT cube and the ’98 iMac. A brave, pushy “talk opera” (Sasha Stone‘s term) or “verbal action film” (a guy at Universal suggested that one) or aggressive cine-theatre (my own). Obviously an audacious concept — again, loved it on the page — but when you boil it all down Steve Jobs is basically about a demanding, hyper-drive genius being an abrasive dick to his employees, friends and ex-partners for two hours, and especially being an astonishing world-class dick by refusing to admit to his daughter that he’s her biological dad. Really, seriously…what an asshole.

And after the first 45 minutes to an hour the tone of Steve Jobs becomes a bit strident and fatiguing — a torrent of argumentative, badgering jabbermouth about the joys of obstinacy and belligerence and trying to bend people to your immaculate will. It was fascinated by it, but I can’t honestly say I “enjoyed” it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being an intelligent, pruned-down, HBO-level biopic, which is pretty much what you get with Jay Roach‘s Trumbo (Bleecker Street, 11.6). A political biopic, I should say — an above-average portrait of the Hollywood blacklist era, and a better-than-decent capturing of one the most gifted and industrious blacklisted screenwriters ever. A moustachioed, sandpaper-voiced Bryan Cranston portrays the stalwart titular hero; I felt completely at home with the guy. Trumbo was one of the most gifted wordsmiths in Hollywood history — a winner of two screenwriting Oscars (Roman Holiday, The Brave One) during his under-wraps period, and also the author of A Guy Named Joe, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, Cowboy, Spartacus, Exodus, Lonely Are The Brave.” — from “Naked, Extremely Prolific Writer in Bathtub,” a 9.13 HE post from the Toronto Film Festival.

In January 2014 Anti-slavery.org‘s Aidan McQuade struck a blow for worldwide idiocy when he slammed director David O. Russell for describing Jennifer Lawrence‘s contractual obligations to the endless Hunger Games franchise as a form of slavery, “Talk about 12 years of slavery, that’s what the franchise is,” Russell told the Daily News on 1.10.14. McQuade complained that Russell’s comparison was “glib” and insensitive. Russell “apologized” but the whole brouhaha was headache-inducing.

What McQuade was saying, in fact, was that the word “slave” can never be used as a metaphor or a figure of speech, that it can only be used if the speaker is referring to actual slavery as it existed in the United States in the 19th century and as it exists today in cultures around the world or, in another context, back to the ancient Egyptians and Romans using Hebrews as slave laborers. The point is that “slave”, which basically alludes to economic subjugation, must be used in a literal or historical context. And that means somebody has to go after the Rolling Stones.

In any event two more knee-jerkers — educator/activist DeRay McKesson and writer-editor Jemilah Lemieux — have stepped into the breach to carry on McQuade’s tradition. Two days ago a Guardian article noted objections from McKesson and Lemieux to a slogan — “I’d rather be a rebel than a slave” — on a promotional T-shirt recently worn by Meryl Streep, Carey Mulligan, Romola Garai and Anne-Marie Duff to promote Sarah Gavron‘s Suffragette, which will open the BFI London Film Festival on Wednesday, 10.7.

“White women have said a lot of terrible things over the course of history, [but that] doesn’t mean you wear it on a shirt,” Lemieux tweeted. “Meryl Streep has to know better. And if not, her publicist should have,” tweeted McKesson.

Vinyl pops on HBO in January so three more months of trailers. Everyone has a sense that record executive Richie Finestra may turn out to be Bobby Cannavale‘s best role ever — the trailers certainly aren’t letting anyone forget this. But I’m equally excited by the prospect of Ray Romano‘s Zak Yankovich, Richie’s confidant and head of promotions. Why? Because Romano gave the only solid, rooted performance (“Low-key, totally in the moment, in the scene, never acting”) in the otherwise disposable Rob The Mob. What’s in a series like this for a sober person? That’s the question.

A little after 9 pm I followed Truth director-writer James Vanderbilt and producer Brad Fischer to the Harmony Gold theatre, where a showing of their film was just finishing. We ran into a spiffily dressed Elizabeth Moss next to the rear parking-lot entrance. And then we all moved inside to the “green room.” There we found a very casually dressed Cate Blanchett, who looked, in the coolest way imaginable, like she’d just gotten off a plane from Australia and hadn’t had time to change into uptown duds. Oversized sweater, dress of some kind, white sneakers. She probably didn’t care one way or the other. They were only going to chat about the film with a bunch of slumbering SAG members so what did it matter if she looked red-carpet ready? This is what serious artists do — they wear whatever and shine the dress code when the mood suits. They do whatever the fuck.

(l. to r.) Truth director-writer James Vanderbilt, costar Elizabeth Moss, star Cate Blanchett during last night’s post-screening discussion at Harmony Gold.

I had spoken to Blanchett two and a half years ago during an after-party at the Santa Barbara Film Festival, but celebrities don’t hang onto this stuff. (The average famous actor says hello to thousands of unfamiliar faces every year.) I told her that I’d fallen for Truth in Toronto and had seen it twice so far. She asked if I’d read anything in-depth about it, and I confessed I hadn’t even read Mary Mapes‘ book (“Truth and Duty: The Press, the President, and the Privilege of Power“). She said she’s read Mapes’ daily notes to herself about the events as they were unfolding and was struck by how meticulous and even-toned they seemed. “And then she went home and wrote the book and let go with the anger,” Blanchett said (or something close that).

I sat down last night at Greenblatt’s Deli with Truth director-writer James Vanderbilt and producer Brad Fischer. Both are Hollywood Elsewhere “lurkers,” they told me, and are highly appreciative of my pro-Truth views. We talked for about 40 minutes. We covered this & that but my chief focus was the press’s response to the film. Not how much Truth has been admired by top-tier critics and columnists (Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn, Variety‘s Justin Chang, Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy, Time Out‘s Tom Huddleston, N.Y. Post‘s Lou Lumenick, The Telegraph‘s Tim Robey, The Guardian‘s Catherine Shoard), but how Vanderbilt and Fischer will respond if more Scott Feinberg– and Kyle Smith-style hit pieces pop up between now and opening week.  Their answer, more or less, was “we knew this would be a controversial film from the get-go, but we’re proud of it and whatever happens, happens.”

(l.) Truth director-writer James Vanderbilt; (r.) Truth producer Brad Fischer.

 To which I said okay, fine but you can’t let the critics (depending on how many are out there) gain the upper hand. If those two articles are the end of it, fine, but if others attempt to slam Truth for offering an overly-supportive portrait of the conflicted journalistic record of former 60 Minutes producer Mary Mapes (fiercely portrayed in the film by Cate Blanchett) and CBS anchor Dan Rather in the matter of the 60 Minutes Killian memos story, something similar to what happened with Zero Dark Thirty might potentially occur.

I for one don’t feel that Truth glorifies Mapes and Rather’s journalistic misstep (i.e., submitting the disputed Killian memos as proof of George Bush‘s less-than-sterling National Guard record) as much as immerse the audience in a truly hot journalistic mess, one that feels more and more enveloping as the film goes on and which still starts ignites arguments 11 years after the fact.

Critics of Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Zero Dark Thirty claimed that it endorsed torture and should be accordingly shunned. A decision by Sony publicists to to not put up a fight three years ago when Zero Dark Thirty came under attack allowed the film to be tarnished and in so doing killed its Oscar chances.

I’m not saying it’s likely that Truth will get into a similar sticky wicket, but it’s possible. If this happens it might lose out as a potential Best Picture contender — an honor and distinction that I feel it fully deserves — and that would be a shame.  Either way Vanderbilt and Fischer have made up their minds, they say, to just let the film speak for itself and not jump into the fray (if in fact a fray awaits). I suggested that at the very least that Rather (played in the film by Robert Redford) should tap out a 1200-word guest editorial piece that debates whatever shortcomings the Feinberg-Smith team has accused the film of, and feed it at the right time to the N.Y. Times or Variety or Salon or whomever.

Here is most of last night’s chat, which happened over pickles and a couple of really sloppy egg-salad sandwiches. After we wrapped I followed Vanberbilt and Fischer over to the Harmony Gold facility for a post-screening q & a between Vanderbilt, Cate Blanchett and costar Elizabeth Moss, which was hosted by Variety‘s Jenelle Riley.

I keep talking to folks who are supposed to know a thing or two, but who nonetheless believe that Ridley Scott‘s The Martian, a feelgood sci-fi thriller that everyone likes (myself included), will probably land a Best Picture nomination. Why? This is the third HE post that disagrees with this silly notion, mainly because moderate, sensible-minded adults won’t shut up about it. The Martian is an amusing, engaging, science-friendly popcorn flick that is making money hand over fist — why does it have to be Best Picture-nominated on top of everything else? No one is a bigger fan of clever, well-crafted Jerry Bruckheimer films, which is what The Martian basically is, but Best Picture nominees ought to be made of…I don’t know what exactly but surely something more daring, audacious or nutritious. “Let’s all figure out a way to pool our forces and rescue this funny, resourceful guy so he can come home and promptly get himself in trouble on Twitter”….please.

From Kyle Buchanan‘s 10.2 posting of Oscar Futures: “Will Oscar voters like The Martian enough to vote for it, or will it be hastily dismissed as a genre play? Academy members have shown a willingness to go for sci-fi films like Distict 9 and Avatar if they feel like there are significant thematic underpinnings, so Team Martian would be wise to tout the film’s spirit of can-do cooperation.”

HE to Buchanan: “The spirit of can-do cooperation” is not a thematic underpinning — it’s a marketing fancy, Reddi-whip, an emotional massage.

Even worse: Buchanan reports that “word has it that this very funny film will be submitted in comic categories at the Golden Globes, where it could actually contend for some high-profile wins.” Hello? People want to slot The Martian as a possible Best Comedy or Musical Golden Globe contender and others are seriously suggesting it might be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar? Get real. The Martian is what it is, and everyone’s fine with that. Drop the award-calibre talk so we can all chill on the same page.

Steven Spielberg‘s Bridge Of Spies (Dreamworks, 10.16) isn’t half bad — a sombre, dialogue-driven, fact-based spy tale. It’s a little Spielbergy in the second half (i.e., visual punctuations or signatures that feel a bit pushed or manipulative) but not in ways that I would call excessive or tedious. It’s aimed at the over-40 crowd as younger auds will most likely steer clear. The only obvious stand-out, Oscar-worthy attribute is Mark Rylance‘s droll supporting performance as real-life Russian spy Rudolf Abel, but it’s a keeper. Rylance owns this movie the way Jane Fonda owns Youth; he may very well snag a BSA nomination.

Regular HE readers know how I feel about Spielberg, and I’m telling you I didn’t feel as if I was suffering through this at all. Half of Spies is actually pretty good and the other half is…well, in and out but basically tolerable. From me that’s almost a rave. And I don’t think that’s proportional. This is not a “great” film but a smart and mostly satisfying one, especially if you’re getting older and fatter and have a few faded memories of the days when Russian commmies were the big baddies.

Tom Hanks, once again portraying a walking emblem for American front-porch decency and Atticus Finch-style values, is James B. Donovan, the late American attorney who defended Abel after his arrest in ’57, and then, following the 1960 Russian capture of U2 spy-plane pilot Francis Gary Powers, was asked to fly to Berlin to negotiate for Powers’ release by swapping him for Abel. Donovan also managed to free wrongly accused academic Frederic Pryor, whom the East Germans were holding on suspicion of espionage.

Spies is basically two espionage flicks, the first and best taking place in New York City in the late ’50s and the second occuring in Berlin in ’61 and early ’62. The Spielbergy stuff starts to kick in during the second half, and when it happens you’ll say to yourself “okay, here we go…time for Spielberg to remind us every so often what a great and exacting cinematic composer he can be.” What’s so great about part one (i.e., the New York chapter) is that Spielberg doesn’t insert any conspicuously brilliant flourishes at all, or at least none that demanded my attention.

Four or five days ago Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone posted a Best Supporting Actress spitball piece. She settled on ten performances that are probably on the proverbial list at this stage, she feels. Here are those ten plus an extra name or two coupled with my reactions. By my sights there are four near-locks and one compelling maybe. (Open to debate, of course.) The rest feel dubious for this and that reason.

Near locks: 1. Rooney Mara in Carol — emphatically yes. Except Mara will have to figure some way around that impassive ice-maiden thing she kinda gives off, which won’t serve her well in the long run, red-carpet-wise. 2. Jane Fonda in Youth — definitely. A hot-skillet performance given by a respected, consummate pro who knows exactly how to play the game — probably the front-runner as we speak. 3. Alicia Vikander in The Danish Girl — yes, okay, but mainly because her performance is being talked up as better than Eddie Redmayne‘s. 4. Elizabeth Banks in Love & Mercy — yes, definitely. 5. Rachel McAdams, Spotlight — quite possible (this is the “compelling maybe” I spoke of) as she gives a deft, assured performance in a universally admired film.

I finally saw Freeheld on Friday night, and I didn’t find it half bad. A TV movie, okay, but heartfelt, reasonably well constructed, straightforward. But mainly I came away convinced that Michael Shannon‘s performance is the best thing about it, and that coupled with his performance as a guarded real-estate guy in 99 Homes he absolutely deserves a Best Supporting Actor nomination. Shannon is 41 (three months older than Leonardo DiCaprio) and has been delivering honest, first-rate work since the ’90s but especially, I feel, since his breakout role as a dysfunctional but ruthless truth-teller in Revolutionary Road. In Freeheld he plays an Ocean County detective who stands by his lesbian professional partner (Julianne Moore) when she’s afflicted with cancer and has to fight local bureaucrats to pass along her pension to her partner (Ellen Page). I like and respect this guy more than his 99 Homes character, who is basically a scared, flinty prick…but with a measure of vulnerability. Shannon definitely steals that film from Andrew Garfield. And he steals Freeheld from Moore and Page. And both films are playing side by side at the Arclight now. Shannon is the guy, the master of that thing that he does. He doesn’t have to be nominated for anything — he’s fine — but he should be.

Michael Shannon as a fearful real-estate shark in 99 Homes.

As Julianne Moore’s Ocean County detective friend/platonic partner in Freeheld.

Jane Fonda would probably tell you she had a good time last night in Santa Barbara, or more precisely at the Bacara in Goleta. Dressed in a fetching forest green gown and looking like $75 million bucks, the two-time Oscar winner accepted the 10th annual Kirk Douglas Award for Excellence in Film award, which was presented by Santa Barbara Film Festival honcho Roger Durling. The underlying agenda, of course, was to launch her Best Supporting Actress campaign for that fierce seven-minute performance as a fading actress in Paolo Sorrentino‘s Youth, which everyone went apeshit for five months ago in Cannes.

“That’s a burn-through, that scene,” I told her when I was ushered into her realm by a publicist. “You own that film completely or…you know, pretty much. That was definitely the consensus among my know-it-all journalist pals in Cannes.” Yes, a typical kiss-ass thing to say during a ballroom conversation, but it’s true — Fonda blows Michael Caine and everyone else off the screen.

Love & Mercy costar Elizabeth Banks, Diane Lane delivered lecturn praise for Fonda at the conclusion of the ceremony.

Fonda, Santa Barbara Film Festival director Roger Durling following her acceptance of 10th annual Kirk Douglas Award for Excellence in Film award.

Fonda thanked me for the compliment (“It’s the truth,” I replied) but said right after that even though she and Keitel and Sorrentino shot it over and over, she wishes she could’ve done the scene once more. (She thumped my chest with her fist as she made this point — great sensation!) Her actress character is from Brooklyn, she explained, and as she gets more and more wound up during her frank-talk scene with Harvey Keitel (who plays a 70ish director) she could have slightly regressed into her Brooklyn accent. Which would’ve made it a tiny bit better, she feels.

I love this about her. All artists feel these frustrations. They’re glad that what they’ve done has tuned out reasonably well, but they mostly see the flaws, the shortcomings. Fonda said the same thing at the lecturn when she accepted the honor: “People were asking me about the clip reels…what do you feel when you see them? It’s hard…it’s hard. You just want to do them over again, make ’em better. I’m nearly 78 and I still feel like a student.”