I did a phoner yesterday morning with John Scheinfeld, director of the PBS-produced Dick Cavett’s Watergate. The show aired last Friday on KOCE, and there’s a possibility it might re-air on some PBS station this week. (It’s very hard to figure out PBS programming.) Either way it’s watchable online. As I said last Saturday, the show shoots “those old Watergate junkie highs right back into your system.” And yet I complained to John that 55 minutes isn’t long enough to re-explore this delicious if appalling chapter in American history. The material could easily allow the doc to run two hours or at the very least 90 minutes, but PBS wasn’t interested. Cavett’s ratings were always below Johnny Carson‘s back in the day, which eventually led to ABC cancelling his show in ’75. And yet Cavett’s percentage of the viewing audience was much higher than what Jimmy Kimmel, David Letterman, Jimmy Fallon, Craig Ferguson or Conan O’Brien are attracting today for the simple reason that he and Carson were the only two talk shows back then. Again, the mp3.

The director of Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why Is Everybody Talkin’ About Him)? and co-director of The U.S. vs. John Lennon, Scheinfeld is about to start work on a documentary about jazz legend John Coltrane.

In an interview last year with Fade In‘s F.X. Feeney, Nebraska director Alexander Payne said that while a color palette is “not right for the film,” he “saw the color version once” and “liked it. It was really pretty. Some shots look even prettier in color. We made it look like a color from about 1970 or ’71, like the colors in Five Easy Pieces, for example.” Well, I just saw the color version on EPIX, and Payne, no offense and due respect, is completely full of shit. The colors in Five Easy Pieces were ripe and natural and plain — God’s own palette, nothing added or subtracted. The colors in Nebraska looked thoroughly pale and sickly and washed out. Everyone’s face had a kind of fake, fleshy makeup-base color, like people in black-and-white films do when the film has been artificially colored. The whole film looked that way. The palette was all creams and bieges and dead grays and K-Mart mustards and washed-out earthy browns and especially reds with an emphasis on maroons. Red this, red that…almost every jacket, sweater and flannel shirt worn was an eat-shit-and-die red. The commercial signs were red. One or two of the commercial buildings were red. The baseball cap that Dern was given to wear at the end had a red brim. The reason, I’m presuming, is that red looks good in black-and-white. Not a single vivid blue of any kind in the film except the sky. Green made three appearances (i.e., a living-room wall, faded grass, a pool table in a bar). Blacks were spotty and mostly fleeting. It was hellish to sit through in a sense. As if Payne and his dp, Phedon Papamichael, wanted the viewers in the countries that demanded a color version to suffer. The film looks 15 times better in black-and-white. Case closed.

I’ve said repeatedly that you never know how much an actor can deliver until you’ve seen him or her in a strong play. Well, I found out last night how exacting and passionate and super-dimensional Amber Tamblyn, Shawn Hatosy, Alicia Witt and Nick Gehlfuss are when push comes to shove. It happened during a two-hour-and-40-minute performance of Neil Labute‘s Reasons To Be Pretty, which I saw at the Geffen theatre in Westwood. It’s running until 8.31, and I’m telling you that…okay, a semi-pricey ticket to Randall Arney‘s production (mine cost $85) is worth its weight in gold. The writing, acting, emotion…forget it. Far more potent than 90% if not 95% of the films and cable fare out there. Really. I felt alive, taken. A kind of throbby, buzzy feeling in my veins.

I’ve been a particular fan of Tamblyn for several years now (Joan of Arcadia, Stephanie Daley, her poetry, that recent Hateful Eight reading), but her performance as Steph, a hairdresser who goes ballistic when her live-in, factory-employed boyfriend, Greg (Hatosy), is overheard describing her looks as “regular” — a bullet to the heart — has to be the best thing she’s ever done. She’s startling, heartbreaking…everything you can imagine that a gifted, live-wire actress could be in a you-are-there, holy-shit realm. Hatosy also — he’s been humping it hard in films and television since the mid ’90s and nothing he’s done has come anywhere close to his Reasons performance. For the first time in nearly 20 years the guy woke me up. Wow…he’s fucking got it! Not Hatosy’s fault — it’s the nature of film and TV to underuse actors. Obviously not entirely but mostly. Sufficient, no-big-deal dialogue. Stories that distract or vaguely “entertain” but rarely elevate.

Before I get into this let me again reiterate my affection for Richard Linklater‘s Boyhood. I don’t think it’s quite the masterpiece that others are calling it, but it’s a very warm and humanistic film — deft and assured and wise and quite unusual. You could even call it unique if you want to ignore Francois Truffaut‘s Antoine Doinel films and Michael Apted‘s Up films. I think it will probably end up as a Best Picture nominee if, as I wrote on 8.3, “the Oscar-blogging mafia (less than 15 people when you boil it down) keeps pushing it as Best Picture-worthy over the next five and a half months.” At the end of the year Boyhood may indeed seem like the pick of the litter because it has “that all-encompassing, life-embracing sprawl or theme” that touches people where they live.

But has Boyhood been overhyped, and is this affecting the responses of those who are just getting around to see it? More particularly, did TheWrap‘s Steve Pond lovingly poison the well by stating on 7.31 that it might not just snag a Best Picture nomination but “actually win” the Best Picture Oscar?

A couple of hours ago a smart industry guy, someone I’ve been talking to for years and genuinely respect, called to say that he and two guild-member friends caught Boyhood over the weekend, and they all agree that Pond’s piece about it possibly winning the Best Picture Oscar is out to lunch. The guy doesn’t want to be identified because he doesn’t want to openly diss Linklater. But he insists that Pond overdid the enthusiasm. “Stop Bogarting that doobie, Steve, and pass it along to us,” the guy said. “That’s such a reach. If it turns out to be a really shitty year, I can see it being Best Picture nominated. But winning?”

Most of us are down with Guardians of the Galaxy, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes and Get On Up, of course, and I suppose there’s nothing fatally misguided about seeing an apparently mediocre foodie film like The Hundred-Foot Journey (55% Metacritic rating). But the other six toppers are the usual late-summer crap. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (33% Metacritic rating), Into The Storm (submental, CG-driven Twister for YouTube generation), Step Up All In (47% Metacritic….who cares?), Lucy (“It’s a movie that says ‘you can take a bathroom break whenever you like’“), Hercules (another 47% wonder) and The Purge: Anarchy. This is the world we live in, the world we’ve submitted to. Except me. Tonight, at least. I’ll be catching Neil LaBute‘s Reasons To Be Pretty at the Geffen, and all the better for it.

Dick Cavett’s Watergate aired last night on KOCE, the local (i.e., Costa Mesa) PBS station. I missed it, but I figured “no big deal…I’ll find some kind of VOD way to see it this weekend.” Actually, no. I thought everything was VOD-accessible these days. A recent L.A. Times review says it runs 90 minutes. But this morning I called John Scheinfeld, director of the Cavett/Watergate show as well as Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why Is Everybody Talking About Him)?, and asked if I can get the 90-minute version, and he said that the 55-minute version is the final deal. Dick Cavett’s Watergate is such a smooth and delicious recollection. Those old Watergate junkie highs come rushing right back into your system.

This is just wrong, man. Vin Diesel was really good — genuine, centered, straight-arrow vibes — for nine years. First out of the box was Strays, an autobiographical piece which he directed. And then a smallish supporting role in Saving Private Ryan — nothing special but solid. And then Boiler Room, Rob Cohen‘s The Fast and the Furious and finally — this was major — Diesel’s performance as an amiable, lower-level mafia guy in Sidney Lumet‘s Find Me Guilty. I began to lose the feeling with Cohen’s xXx (’02), to be honest, but Find Me Guilty put me back on the train. Diesel was doing something back then, and he could always bounce back.

Last night I caught episode #1 of Steven Soderbergh‘s The Knick. I’m sorry but I felt a little…inconclusive about it. My basic problem was Clive Owen‘s cocaine addiction. I can’t invest in a lead character, even a brilliant surgeon, who’s on a self-destructive downswirl. Life is difficult and draining enough without a monkey on your back. Otherwise I found it smart, layered, downbeat, well-written-ish, very nicely shot (kind of Gordon Willis -y), all but humorless (that bit with the cigarette-smoking nun insulting those two guys wasn’t funny enough), grisly, intriguing and sometimes fascinating in a period atmosphere sense…and just a bit underwhelming, I have to say.

The highlights were (a) a startling if stomach-churning surgery scene that began with Owen shooting cocaine into a patient’s spine and (b) a portrayal of professional/urban racism as it existed 114 years ago. I don’t know what I was expecting but I wanted something more. Something crazier, sexier, more sinister…I don’t know. I realize it might take two or three episodes to really kick in. You can’t just pull narrative tension out of a hat, but maybe if Soderbergh had thrown in a nice sprawling CG shot or two of lower Broadway or some other distinctive Manhattan neighborhood. I’m not that hard to please.

I’ve just heard from Telluride Film Festival honcho Tom Luddy, who was a producer on Barfly (’87), the Barbet Schroeder-directed film with Mickey Rourke. He explains that the generic, much-passed-around story about Schroeder, the late Menahem Golan and the electric chainsaw, which I repeated in my Golan obit piece, is incorrect. I’ve also heard from Mr. Schroeder himself.

Luddy: “Jeff — Very nice post on Menachem. [Note: most people spell the late mogul’s first name as Menahem but Luddy prefers the alternate spelling] But part of your text is not quite accurate.

“As I think Barbet will confirm, he went to the office of Alan Abrams, one of the Cannon lawyers, with his Black and Decker saw, not to Menachem’s office. And it was not to demand that they greenlight the film, but to demand that they give us back the film in turnaround, with no onerous ‘turnaround fee’.

The Armenian genocide, the Nazi holocaust against Jews, the killing-field genocide in 1970s Cambodia, the Tutsi-vs.-Hutu Rwanda slaughter of 1994, the Serbian ethnic cleanings in the early ’90s — these are some of the greatest genocidal hits of the last 100 years. But the impending slaughter of Iraqi Christians and Shiites by the ISIS nutbags will surely rank as one of the most horrendous ever. And yet the “wise” and “prudent” course is to let the ISIS genocide run its course, a lot of people are saying. Let the Iraqi factions thrash it out. Roadside executions, beheadings, crucifixions, female genital mutilations…all of it. Let the evil spread and find its own level. If only the country could be split into three natural portions, which is what Joe Biden has been saying for some time — Shiite, Sunni and Kurds.

The Bluray of Steven Knight‘s Locke streets on 8.12. From my 4.8 review: “It happens entirely inside a BMW SUV on the motorway between Birmingham and London at night, and it’s all about bluetooth phone calls. The great Tom Hardy is behind the wheel the entire time. But what pushes the film along is the stuff of any compelling drama — character, tough decisions, adult pressures, guilt, tragedy, trauma, twists and turns.

“Locke might sound a bit confining or even boring, but it’s not — trust me. This is not some arcane aesthetic exercise. It’s not a stunt film. It’s a story about a real guy coping with pressure and responsibility and love and adulthood and serious, real-deal consequences and trying to man up and do the right thing without allowing everything else to fall into a heap on the floor.

The first sign of serious trouble in any relationship is when you realize your girlfriend is seemingly more in love with and definitely more affectionate toward her dogs than yourself. This situation tends to feel even worse when these canine love objects are neurotic little yappy dogs who are so agitated and neurotic and fearful and cranked up with anxiety that almost anything upsets them. You try to make friends with these little fuckers (always the best policy if they belong to your girlfriend) and they look at you like you’re a wolf about to tear their throat out. They tremble and vibrate when you try to gently pet them. They’re not cool like most dogs. Guy dogs, I mean. Anything you do short of being cruel or neglectful, guy dogs are okay with. Guy dogs like playing tug of war and going on runs and catching frisbees and sticking their heads of out fast-moving cars. Yappy dogs like to go on walks also, true, but everything freaks them out. A motorcycle roars by and they go nuts. A private plane approaching Santa Monica Airport causes them to go insane. Women love yappy dogs because they’re small and defenseless and trembling for the most part. I am down with any dog, anywhere, any time. But I hate yappy dogs.