Best: Do you ever sit back on the couch after Thanksgiving and unbutton your pants and slap your chest and go “awwww boy!”? Second Best: Hitler. Third best: Suntan question. Fourth best: Furry.

I decided not to post this yesterday as a general statement of protest and disdain, but then I figured I could get a fair amount of honorable attention by posting it with the above headline.

“Look, I’m no purist — there are good superhero films and there are bad ones. Movies started out as an extension of a magic trick so making a spectacle is part of the game. I had a lot of fun designing a huge fucking metal eagle to attack New York City. It’s just that we’ve been overwhelmed by these movies now. They keep taking up room that could be going to smaller films. [Not] art films…I fucking hate that term. No, films about human beings. Those aren’t art films. They should just be called ‘films.'” — Birdman director Alejandro G. Inarritu speaking to Rolling Stone‘s David Fear.

If this perfect little scene isn’t in Rupert Wyatt, William Monahan and Mark Wahlberg‘s The Gambler (Paramount, 12.19), I’ll sure take it badly of them. A little on the nose but eloquent — a nice clean pocket drop.

You know what John Wick is? John Wick is basically that moment in Collateral when Tom Cruise drills those two thieves in the alley, a shooting so fast and ruthless that the bad guys barely get a chance to go “whoa” before they’re dead. Keanu Reeves‘ titular character gets to kill bad guys as quickly and mercilessly as this all through the damn film. When Cruise did it in Collateral it was fleet and beautiful. In John Wick Reeves does it at least 80 or 90 times — shootings, stabbings, neck-crackings, shotgun blastings, stranglings — and after the 15th or 20th time it’s like “okay, man, I get it — he’s the Terminator.” And everybody in the film, amusingly, knows and respects this. And none of them offer criticisms or warnings of any kind. “Hey, John…okay, cool, no worries…just do your thing.”

The late Ben Bradlee “was an intriguing man,” Robert Redford has written in a brief statement sent to The Hollywood Reporter. “Bold, strong-willed and smart with a wicked and sometimes perverse sense of humor. He was unique in a world of so much conventional wisdom. With a sailor’s swagger and a tart tongue to match, he forged a new type of character as editor-in-chief of a newspaper in a time of change. It was a world I never expected was possible from just a newspaper. It was 1974, and Watergate was about to happen. To Bradlee combat was sport and he was a very good sport.” Wait…Watergate was “about” to happen in ’74? It had been happening since June 1972. The only thing left in ’74 was Nixon’s resignation, which finally happened in August.

The initial whammo-schmammo press screening of Chris Nolan‘s Interstellar happens early Thursday evening (i.e., tomorrow night), but I’d better not say where. The review embargo goes up on Monday morning but immediate post-screening tweets are good to go. I’m expecting somewhere between an 8 and 8.5 experience. I’m not expecting a 9 based on what that Fort Hood “play with my balls” guy said last weekend. Cheers to Nolan for not shooting this thing in 3D. Seriously, I love him for that. And I adore the fact that Paramount will be showing it in 70mm non-digital IMAX. How many more times is that likely to happen? This could be the last time. It’s certainly one of the last times. The celluloid sentimentalists are few in number and surrounded on all sides.

“How to handle a woman? ‘There’s a way,’ said the wise old man. ‘A way known by ev’ry woman since the whole rigmarole began.’

“‘Do I flatter her?’ I begged him answer. ‘Do I threaten or cajole or plead? Do I brood or play the gay romancer?’ Said he, smiling: ‘No indeed.’

“‘How to handle a woman? Mark me well, I will tell you, sir. The way to handle a woman is to tolerate her…gently tolerate her…lovingly tolerate her…tolerate her…tolerate her.'”

— “How to Handle A Woman,” a Richard Burton/Richard Harris song from Lerner & Lowe’s Camelot (1961).

I’ve been waiting on this puppy for a long time. You can tell that slimmed-down Mark Wahlberg, who knows gambling and street energy and the old risk-until-you’re-almost-toast thing, knows what he’s doing. He gets it, he’s there…his spiritual sweet spot. You can also tell that Jessica Lange has her steely mom thing down pat. How about John Goodman rocking the baldie, eh? Serious shit.

Poor Zak (formerly called Jazz) is getting castrated at Laurel Pet Hospital today. I don’t know where I got the idea that a neutering operation costs around $300, but I’m wrong. If I hadn’t told the vet to forget about doing a blood work test (on a seven-month-old kitten in the prime of life?) I’d be paying $100 more. If I hadn’t told her to forget about a flea treatment I’d be paying over $600. (I have some flea treatment stuff at home, thanks.) If I hadn’t told them to forget about giving Zak his final boosters I’d be paying $750 or so. Edgar Buchanan to Alan Ladd in Shane: “S’matter, son? You look kinda pale.”

The “new” Renee Zellweger looks nice these days. Pretty, relaxed, well-tended. But the fact that she bears little if any resemblance to the actress who starred in Jerry Maguire, Cold Mountain, Bridget Jones Diary and Chicago has caught people’s attention. And wouldn’t you know it but Zellweger and Hollywood Elsewhere will probably cross paths next Monday (10.27) at the Savannah Film Festival. (I’ll be there between Friday, 10.24 and Tuesday, 10.28.) Why is her “work” getting all this attention now, a week before she shows up in Savannah with guys like me hanging around? What, for that matter, has Ms. Zellweger done lately? I’m in no way chuckling or making light of the fact that her career has been slowing down. It happens. It’s tough. There but for the grace of God.

But in a very real appearance sense the Zellweger of 10 or 15 years ago has been pretty much erased. The spirit and personality are presumably still intact, of course, but I really, genuinely, honest-to-God don’t recognize her…although she does look pleasant and attractive as far as those terms go. The eyes, the jaw…really strange.

First-rate “work” is supposed to enhance, de-sag and de-age so subtly that people notice a certain improvement without wondering how or chattering behind your back. That’s how it used to be, at least. Maybe the new aesthetic is “don’t make yourself look slightly younger…throw your entire face out in the trash and start over clean with a nice, fresh newbie.” Imagine what Rod Serling would make of this.

One naturally assumes that Chuck Workman‘s Magician: The Astonishing Life and Work of Orson Welles is about his facility with magic. Nope — it’s just a tribute to his filmmaking genius. And an argument, it seems, that he didn’t peak at 25 when he made Citizen Kane. Clips from almost every existing Welles film plus the usual talking-head testimonials (Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Richard Linklater, Peter Bogdanovich). And by the way, nobody wolfed it down like Welles. Chris Pratt can’t hold a candle.