Every December I take a look at the coming film-release year and get a little bummed. Which is more or less how I feel right now. This Wiki forecast of 2015 represents only about 50% or 60% of the likely stand-outs if that, but I’m feeling deflated all the same. Too many programmers, I’m thinking — i.e., somewhat predictable, concept-driven, ho-hummy, not a lot to quicken the pulse. A healthy percentage of the stuff that will really turn the key, of course, will be on cable. This is the world, the way it is…and that’s fine. House of Cards, the Mad Men finale, etc.

Right off the top the only theatrical film that looks like it might be a major X-factor knockdown is Alejandro G. Inarritu‘s The Revenant, a revenge-survival drama which 20th Century Fox will open 11 or 12 months from now.

I realize, of course, that many, many unforeseen comers will pop out of Sundance, Berlin, Cannes and the September-October festivals (Telluride, Venice, Toronto, New York), but right now I’m looking to add titles to the list that may turn out to be cultivated, dynamic, extra-dimensional, “original”, arty-farty, awards-baity…anything along those lines.

Right now the only 2015 films that seem remotely boat-floaty are the following, and a significant portion of these seem at first glance more like plot-driven attractions or diversions than what most of us would call fresh approach social undercurrent perk-up flicks…but what do I know? My interest levels are roughly reflected by the order in which they appear. The first seven or eight for sure, but after that….

The Revenant (20th Century Fox) — Alejandro González Inarritu (director/screenplay); Mark E Smith (screenplay); Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Hardy, Will Poulter, Domhnall Gleeson.

Everest (Universal) — Baltasar Kormákur (director); Justin Isbell, William Nicholson (screenplay); Jake Gyllenhaal, Josh Brolin, Jason Clarke, John Hawkes, Sam Worthington, Keira Knightley, Robin Wright.

Black Mass (Warner Bros.) — Scott Cooper (director/screenplay); Johnny Depp, Joel Edgerton, Benedict Cumberbatch, Sienna Miller, Dakota Johnson.

President Obama “should convene all the players who make billions from the free and unfettered display of content and broker a deal that gives Americans the opportunity to watch The Interview. Put it on Hulu, on iTunes, on Google Play, on Netflix, on NBC and all the broadcast networks, on Showtime and all the cable stations, put it anywhere and everywhere that people can push a button and watch at the same time. Ubiquity and the lack of a discernible target would trump censorship.

“The industry, old and new, digital and analog, should step across a line together, holding hands with consumers and letting the world know that we prize our goofy movies, along with the important ones, and the freedoms that they represent. If disparate competitors managed to set aside self-interest and acted for the common good, it could be the social viewing event of the century. I’d do anything to do my bit for artistic freedom, including watching a buddy-movie comedy that stars Seth Rogen and James Franco.” — from a 12.21 David Carr/”Media Equation” column in the N.Y. Times.

It’s lazy of me to re-post a review only 40 days after the initial but I’ve done lazier things on a drizzly Sunday while sitting in a cafe. Rupert Wyatt‘s The Gambler is opening four days hence (on Thursday, 12.25) and I can’t think of anything else to post before driving into the city in the light snow and rain…a not-very-friendly December day.

“I know what this sounds like but Rupert Wyatt, William Monahan and Mark Wahlberg‘s The Gambler isn’t as interesting or eloquent as Karel Riesz, James Toback and James Caan‘s The Gambler (’74). It deals faster, flashier cards, but it misses the meditative soulful aspects of the Reisz-Toback version, which is partly to say it takes no pleasure in occasional wins and the power and glory of that.

“The new Gambler is almost entirely about staring into the abyss. Character-wise it delivers a relentless obstinacy and a smug-punk attitude in Mark Wahlberg‘s gambling-addicted character, and story-wise it furnishes a constant cycle of losing and doubling down and then losing a whole lot more, and then borrowing from ugly Peter to pay even-more-terrible Paul and so on. And it blows off those charming tidbits of Fyodor Dostoevsky‘s philosophy that lent a certain spiritual élan to the ’74 version.

If you’re paying any attention to social attitudes and etiquette among 25-and-under GenYs and more particularly to those raised in liberal educated homes, it’s almost considered rude to refer to anyone being of a particular gender. It’s not quite verboten to say “boy” or “girl” or “man” or “woman,” but it almost is. This goes hand in hand with an absolute taboo on any hint of homophobia or a less than fully accepting attitude towards omnisexuality. Everyone’s everything, man…oops, sorry. I was talking about this with old friends on Saturday night and then an hour or so later this photo popped up and it seemed to fit on some level. The striking Shiloh Jolie Pitt, whose features suggest an amazingly even-steven splicing of Brangelina, wearing a male suit and allegedly wanting to be one of the guys and be called “John”, etc. Cool, whatever, go with the times, etc.

During yesterday’s visit to Saugerties I stopped by the fabled “big pink” house to pay respects and take a couple of snaps. I’m speaking, of course, of the legendary abode where Bob Dylan and The Band recorded the Basement Tapes in ’67 and from which The Band’s “Music From Big Pink” album sprung in ’68.

And I must report the truth, which is that “big pink” is a lie — it’s not pink but a mild rose mixed with beige. Pink is pink — an eyesore color for girly-girls. Shocking pink, punk-hair pink, pink underwear, Angelyne’s pink Corvette, Elvis’s soft pink Cadillac from the late ’50s. And then there is the realm of rose, which is a gentler, somewhat earthier, more natural shade. Mix rose with a bit of fleshy soft biege from the women’s make-up counter at Bloomingdale’s and you’ve got the color of “big pink.” I understand that “big pink” sounds cooler than “big rosey beige” and that’s cool, but someone had to tell the truth and I guess it had to be me.

“Big pink” house at 17 Parnassus Lane in Saugerties, New York — Saturday, 12.20, 12:20 pm.

Ridley Scott‘s Exodus: Gods and Kings opened domestically on 12.12 with around $24 million and is projected to hit…I’m not sure. But I know Box Office Mojo has it ranked fifth behind the weekend’s top four attractions — The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies, Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb, Annie and The Hunger games: Mockingjay, Part 1. (Can it be safely assumed that if a movie title has a colon in it, that it probably blows to some extent?) It also appears as if Exodus has done better overseas than domestically with the total foreign county at $45 million or thereabouts. One thing that’s apparently happened in this country is that yahoo Christians, smelling a non-religious approach, haven’t come out in droves. Scott’s instincts told him to stay way from a reverent approach and make some kind of anti-Cecil B. DeMille, non-believing version of Moses’ tale. That was probably a mistake all around. Now that Exodus is officially a domestic under-performer and can probably be called an all-around failure, do we have any final assessments as to what went wrong?

This is a greeting-cardish sentiment, but a generally true one. I’d like to dispute but I can’t think of a single film in my personal pantheon that hasn’t moved me emotionally on some level. Even Betrayal. Mediocre or bad films generally put me in a stupor, which usually results in walking out or turning them off. I won’t sit through crap, and I always know a film is a dumper less than ten minutes in and frequently less than five.

I’ll be in Manhattan for six days starting on Sunday, and one of the things I’d like to do is catch Jake Gyllenhaal and The Affair‘s Ruth Wilson in Nick Payne‘s Constellations, which opens officially on 1.13.15. A likely Best Actor nominee (but who knows?) for his bug-eyed sociopath role in Dan Gilroy’s critically hailed Nightcrawler, Gyllenhaal will be topline three (and possibly four) 2015 films of a seemingly significant nature — Antoine Fuqua‘s Southpaw, Balthasar Kormakur‘s Everest (9.28.15) and Jean Marc Vallee‘s Demolition, a romantic drama that doesn’t involve any kind of physical demolition activity. The possible fourth is David O. Russell‘s long-absent Nailed, which will receive British theatrical distribution next year and will probably be available stateside as a VOD concurrently or soon after.

The combination of widespread condemnation of Sony and exhibitors for caving to an emailed threat from the hackers plus a lot of chatter yesterday about alternative distribution options for The Interview indicate, to me, that the Seth Rogen-James Franco film will probably be downloadable or otherwise viewable in some fashion before long. And when that happens the heat around this film will start to cool. Because it’s not that good or thrilling or buzzy. Diverting in some respects but generally repetitive and underwhelming. Here’s my 12.13 review for those who skipped over.

Nine foreign-language features have been shortlisted as part of a process that’ll eventually result in five nominees for the 87th Academy Awards. I’ve seen five of the nine. Of these I heartily approve of Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Leviathan (Russia), Paweł Pawlikowski‘s Ida (Poland) and Damian Szifron‘s Wild Tales (Argentina). I’m mezzo-mezzo on Ruben Ostlund‘s Force Majeure (Sweden) and Abderrahmane Sissako‘s Timbuktu (Mauritania).

I haven’t seen Zaza Urushadze‘s Tangerines (Estonia), George Ovashvili‘s Corn Island (Georgia), Paula van der Oest‘s Accused (Netherlands) and Alberto Arvelo‘s The Liberator (Venezuela).

The Dardennes brothers’ Two Days and One Night was blown off. Ditto Xavier Dolan‘s Mommy, which so many critics did apeshit somersaults for in Cannes. Some attendees at last May’s Cannes Film Festival were dismayed by the jurors giving the Palme d’Or to Nuri Bilge Ceylon‘s Winter Sleep instead of the more deserving Leviathan, but the Ceylan wasn’t even shortlisted. Jane Campion is slapping her forehead in amazement.