The trailer summary says Don Draper (Jon Hamm) was booted out of Sterling Cooper & Partners at the end of season #6. I thought he’d been forced to take a leave of absence but hadn’t actually been kicked to the curb. I never liked Draper. He’s a cold, angry, closed-off dick — always vaguely pissed or clenched up about something. Always lying. And his lack of social skills are sometimes breathtaking. Never, ever discuss your skanky personal secrets at the office…God! So season #7 is going to happen in 1969 and possibly ’70?

Salon‘s Alex Pareene and Talking Points Memo‘s Tom Kludt are both pooh-poohing the notion of Morning Joe host, author and former Congressman Joe Scarborough looking like a reasonably promising candidate for the 2016 Republican Presidential Nomination. Pareene is saying that the conservative-minded MSNBC talkshow host is (a) not well known enough and (b) not crazy enough for the Republican nutters. But with Gov. Chris Christie suffering a thousand-cut death and most likely out of the race, Scarborough seems like the only guy around who could mount a substantial and engaging challenge to presumptive Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton. Scarborough is blustery at times but it’s hard to imagine that he’d be anywhere near as gaffe-prone as Mitt Romney was, and he’d surely be more appealing to country-club Republicans, independents and undecideds than a whacko like Rand Paul, who is absolutely guaranteed to lose. Scarborough, at least, would lose by a closer margin. I for one would like to see him win the Republican nomination. It would make a more civil and engaging contest of ideas and character. You know all the dumbfuck rural uglies will come out of the woodwork if Paul wins the nomination.

Sasha Stone‘s just-posted article, “Where The Oscars Go When Television Starts To Lead,” is well worth reading. It basically (a) acknowledges the steady, gradual drift of quality-level talent (especially writers) away from theatrical and over to cable television while (b) urging that the Academy needs to start giving a special annual Oscar to the Best Effects-Driven Film — “a separate category for the kinds of films they don’t like to award for Best Picture, the same way they’ve done for Foreign Language film and Animated Feature.”

Excerpt #1: “American film is moving away from good, quality storytelling and towards branded tent poles. This started during my childhood with the advent of the blockbuster. Now we’re actually rebooting Star Wars via JJ Abrams. Movies as video games, movies as amusement park rides, movies as familiar, comforting, non-challenging entertainment. Tent poles — get used to them. Get used to every beloved director being hired to make one. Branded tent poles are power in Hollywood. Directors can do those and then turn around and make what they want.”

This morning Carl Swanson‘s Vulture interview with Nymphomaniac star Charlotte Gainsbourg appeared. She’s been acting since the mid ’80s, but I’ve been paying close attention for only a bit more than a decade, or since she costarred in Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu‘s 20 Grams. She costarred in Todd Haynes‘ I’m Not There and has been, of course, in two other Lars Von Trier films, Melancholia and Antichrist. I’m just saying I know her face pretty well, and that she’s definitely been touched up for the photo that runs with the interview. In a really seamless and attractive way, I mean. Hats off to the digital guy who made her look 37 as well as the Julian Watson Agency’s Cyril Laloue (hair), Megumi Zlatoff (makeup). It’s just that up until now I’ve always thought that CG makeovers belonged more to the realm of fashion magazines and advertisements.

There are two versions of Drew McWeeny — the brilliant, amiable guy I talk to at film festivals and before screenings, and the other guy who tweets strident stuff that sometimes goes over the line. Today he tweeted that I “sided” with that retired police officer, Curtis Reeves, who killed a married father, Chad Oulson, in a Tampa-area movie theatre over a texting dispute last January. I didn’t side with Reeves, for Chrissake. I said the following: (a) “I blame Reeves, of course — this was obviously the act of an unstable personality“; and (b) “Oulson was [nonetheless] being unconscionably selfish and violating Reeves’ rights as a moviegoer.” Except it’s now been reported that Reeves was also texting at the time, and that the altercation happened during the trailers. So that “violating moviegoer rights” stuff doesn’t apply because everyone agrees, I think, that you’re free to do almost anything you want during trailers.

Two people (possibly South by Southwest music festival attendees) were killed in Austin last night by a drunk driver who was fleeing the fuzz. Over 20 others were hurt badly, five critically. The perp is in custody. Austin intends to charge him with capital murder, not manslaughter. I had an early-morning phoner scheduled with Indiewire critic Eric Kohn (who’s been covering the film festival). When he didn’t answer twice I imagined the worst, but he’s okay. We’ll be talking around 10 am L.A. time.

Why am I having difficulty even flirting with the idea of seeing Marc Webb‘s The Amazing SpiderMan 2? If there was only some kind of implied metaphor, undercurrent, something. But it’s just another cash-grab. I should have become blase about the corporate-tentpole-based-on-a-graphic-novel syndrome (and the mutants who greenlight and pay to see this shite) years ago. Will exhibition eventually just give up on quality films or will the longing to experience the good stuff in theatres persist despite all the increasing pressures against this? Thank God for cable longforms like True Detective and House of Cards and whatever else may be coming along between now and Labor Day. We’re in the late winter-early spring doldrums.

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My complimentary copy of Matt Zoller Seitz‘s “The Wes Anderson Collection” finally arrived today and…wait, what? There’s no chapter on The Grand Budapest Hotel. I know that books take a while to prepare but Seitz and his publishers couldn’t wedge in, say, three or four pages of on-set Budapest stills, hundreds of which were no doubt taken during filming last winter and spring? How many months in advance do book publishers need?

The most withering female put-down moment of my life happened on Santa Monica Blvd. back in the mid ’80s. I was tooling along in my moderately depressing downmarket Mazda when I saw a fetching blonde driving a really snazzy, powder-blue Mustang convertible with a “4 SALE” sign taped to the back window. I was so taken by the double-barrelled beauty of the girl and the car, which was freshly washed and gleaming in the magic-hour light, that when we pulled up to a stop light I rolled my window down, smiled at the blonde and said “How much?” She took one look and said, “Too much.”

The second most withering moment happened last July. I was texting with the lady I’d fallen in love with (i.e., the affair that ran from early May through late October) and in the middle of a discussion about something fairly basic she texted (and I mean right out of the fucking blue), “I’m expensive.” Whoa. The last time I’d heard that line was when Marilyn Maxwell said it to Kirk Douglas in Champion (’49). We all know what she meant, of course. Obviously not just “I’m high maintenance” but “I might be too high maintenance for you, given your apparent income and frugal tendencies. I’m not saying I definitely am but…well, you tell me.”

You wash, I’ll dry. Here’s a True Detective scene that didn’t make the final cut, i.e. — a philosophically-rooted marital breakup moment between Mathew McConaughey (i.e, Detective Rust Cohle) and Elizabeth Reaser (his wife Lori/Laurie). “Aahh…I guess I just cain’t roll with having kids, no offense…not with you or anyone”…destructive philosophy, dead shark. Embed code lifted from Variety.

I found it impossible to roll with Roger Michel‘s Le Week-End (Music Box, 3.14), which I saw early last September at the Toronto Film Festival. Mainly because I don’t want to know about a doddering, bespectacled and bewhiskered Jim Broadbent, playing a 60ish academic type, rekindling romantic fires with his wife of many decades (Lindsay Duncan). And I don’t mean the emotional aspect. Duncan is quietly attractive in a getting-on sort of way. I can imagine her having some kind of love life in some other situation, but I never want to even think about Broadbent in any kind of husband/lover/sexual context, ever.

Pokey, comfort-shoe-wearing men of Broadbent’s age are free to show love, write poetry, play guitar in a garage band, run for Congress, compete in marathons, go to cooking school in Italy and pursue happiness any way they can, but I don’t want to watch them in any sort of aroused or tumescent state, okay? Just leave me out of it. Thank you.

Today I wrote Noah director Darren Aronofsky, whom I’ve long considered to be something of an industry pally. Okay, an acquaintance. He and his editor peruse the column, he told me during the Black Swan days. I told him about my plan to drive down to old Tijuana to see Noah on Friday, 3.21 (i.e., the day it opens in Mexico, which is five days sooner than the L.A. all-media on 3.26), and asked him for a phone interview if he’s so inclined. He’ll probably defer to Paramount p.r.’s decision to blow me off because of my anti-Christian rants. The Noah marketing drill is probably something along the lines of “sell the awe and the spectacle and the Aronfsky integrity factor, and don’t alienate the nutter Christian right.”

Slashfilm’s Peter Sciretta and Noah director Darren Aronofsky sometime before or after last night’s premiere screening in Mexico City.