The extended-cut Bluray of Ridley Scott‘s The Counselor (138 minutes vs. the 118-minute theatrical version) streets today. I’ve rented it on iTunes for viewing this evening. In the view of Forbes.com’s Mark Hughes, the theatrical version was over-abbreviated but the long version allows the characters to breathe easier and and stretch their legs and fill things out. If this view turns out to be widely shared, people will call it a repeat of the extended Bluray cut of Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven — a significantly better version than what was shown in theatres.

In the view of Indiewire‘s Jessica Kiang, Hossein Amini‘s The Two Faces of January, based on a 1964 novel by Patricia Highsmith and screening at the Berlinale, is a letdown. “Something is lost in the translation,” leading to “little more than a competent disappointment, and a strangely old-fashioned one at that,” she writes. “The problems are script-deep, because as a director, Amini shows himself capable if uninspired, but here as screenwriter, he’d appear to be back on the same kind of form that led to the reverent but rather mechanical literary adaptations Jude and The Four Feathers.”

The Devil’s Disciple, a respectable 1959 adaptation of an 1897 George Bernard Shaw play, has been pretty much forgotten. It costarred three big movie stars — Kirk Douglas, Burt Lancaster, Laurence Olivier — at their respective peaks, but it’s not on DVD (let alone Bluray) and you can’t watch it on Netflix, Hulu or Vudu. (The VHS version is for sale on Amazon.) It must have lapsed into public domain. It was co-produced by Douglas’s Bryan Prods. and Lancaster’s Hecht-Hill-Lancaster Films (even though Harold Hecht is listed as the sole producer). It was shot on black-and-white with a 1.37 (or 1.66) aspect ratio by British director Guy Hamilton (Goldfinger, Funeral in Berlin). I saw it eons ago on TV, and watched about half of it last night on YouTube. It’s not half-bad — spirited, intelligent, witty, impassioned, well-acted. It’s a shame that it’s teetering on the brink of extinction.

Right around the time I shot this iPhone video during yesterday afternoon’s Berlin-to-Prague train trip, Glenn Kenny was calling me “worthless” on Twitter for not dropping everything in order to see Alain Resnais‘ Life of Riley (a.k.a., Aimer, boire et chanter) at the Berlinale. Serious respect to a venerated master, but Resnais’s greatest period of vitality lasted for 20 years, or between Hiroshima, Mon Amour (’59) and Mon Oncle d’Amerique (’80). It’s great that he’s still creating at age 91 but I’ll see Life of Riley when I get around to it.

Six or seven years ago I was chatting with the late Andy Jones at an Academy screening when an African-American professional woman walked by. I waved and greeted her effusively. Two seconds later I was mortified because I’d addressed her with the name of another African-American professional…good God. After she left Andy chuckled and said, “That’s okay, Jeffrey…all black women look alike so it’s understandable that you made that mistake.” I’ve never felt so completely humiliated. White man! All to say that while KTLA’s Sam Rubin appropriately apologized for briefly thinking that Samuel L. Jackson had performed in a Super Bowl commercial that belonged to Laurence Fishburne, the bottom line was that he had confused the two because of his…uhm, cultural perspective. These things happen every so often, I suppose, but I know it’ll never happen with me again.

I’ve been excited about seeing Jose Padhila‘s Robocop (MGM/Columbia, 2.12) for a couple of years now. It began with an interview I did with Padhila as he was beginning work on the remake of Paul Verhoeven’s 1987 original. As an admirer of Padilha’s Bus 174 (’02), Elite Squad (’07) and Elite Squad: The Enemy Within (’10), I knew his Robocop would have to be at least somewhat rock ‘n’ roll. Anway, the Los Angeles all-media screening of Jose Padhilla‘s Robocop broke a little while ago and reviews will soon be posted. But something’s wrong. The Rotten Tomatoes score indicates a ho-hum response. The feeling is that (a) it’s an in-betweener, (b) it’s not saying gnything new, (c) it’s efficiently made but not satiric or “out there” enough. I don’t have tracking info but it’s probably not going to make box-office history — I can feel it. I suppose this is due to a general feeling that Verhoeven’s original didn’t need to be remade.

In a 2.9 Gold Derby piece about why certain Oscar handicappers are picking Gravity to win the Best Picture Oscar, Deadline‘s Pete Hammond explains as follows: “I had been predicting Gravity for much of the season and then moved on briefly to American Hustle and then 12 Years a Slave. But I have gone back to Gravity because simply I think it could be a ‘consensus’ film. It may not be on a majority of ballots as a number one choice, but I bet it is on many as a number two. This is a year where a number of good films will likely split that number-one passion vote. I doubt any of them will get over 50% first time out. That’s when the number two choice makes a huge difference. Right now I am betting that number two is Gravity with a lot of help from below-the-line branches. I was given pause by its loss at the ACE Eddies but not enough to cause great concern. BAFTA will be the next litmus test. Until then I will stick with this strategy.”

Translation: The sheep-herd mentality is almost always averse or blind to films that project a singular verve or a ferocious passion like — hello? — The Wolf of Wall Street, which is hands down the best film of the year. Which is why an orbital verisimilitude amusement ride — a towering technical achievement but that’s all — is probably going to take the top prize. Fantastic! The Academy members who decided the 1965 Oscars would get along very well with today’s gutless go-alongers if they could time-machine into the present.

The Oscars get it wrong almost every year, and the 37th Academy Awards, handed out on 4.5.65, were no exception, particularly in three categories. My Fair Lady (which I can’t even bring myself to watch on Bluray) got more votes than the masterful Becket and Dr. Strangelove for Best Picture, and George Cukor beat Peter Glenville and Stanley Kubrick for Best Director…c’mon! Rex Harrison beat out Strangelove‘s Peter Sellers, Becket‘s Peter O’Toole and Richard Burton and Zorba The Greek‘s Anthony Quinn — who in the world of 2014 gives a damn about Harrison’s Henry Higgins? I understand the Harrison win only because of O’Toole and Burton being up against each other — a suicide move that ensured a split Becket vote.

In a 2.8 N.Y. Times column about the late Paddy Chayefsky and Dave Itzkoff‘s “Mad As Hell,” a sweeping tale of the genesis and making of Network, Maureen Dowd notes while Chayefsky “warned against ‘comicalizing the news,'” today’s news “has became so diminished that young people [have] turned to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert to learn about what was going on in the world.”

There’s a need for movies to downshift in the late portion of the Second Act (or early in the Third Act) so their main characters can have…oh, 90 seconds or two minutes or perhaps a bit more to deliver an extended riff of some sort. A soul-baring, an unleashing, an outpouring of feelings or principles. A couple of pages of dialogue that advances or clarifies the character’s motive or raison d’etre. It’s not that these scenes don’t happen often enough. It’s that they rarely do.

“The Santa Barbara Film Festival hummed along nicely. There was Cate Blanchett, there was David O. Russell, there were Marty and Leo. There was a tribute to the virtuosos. Half of the ones not nominated for Oscars were no-shows — Adele Exarchopolous, Oscar Isaac and Daniel Bruhl. Half of them did show up — Brie Larson and Michael B. Jordan, who were not nominated, and Jared Leto and June Squibb, who were.

Leonard Maltin, Robert Redford, Roger Durling at conclusion of Friday night’s SBIFF tribute.

Santa Barbara Film Festival director Roger Durling.

“Robert Redford was the second to last of the major tributes. He drew a huge crowd of appreciative movielovers, filling the Arlington. ‘I wonder who’s going to present the award to him,’ someone asked me. I didn’t know. Usually there is a high-profile celebrity who does the introduction, like Rooney Mara or Jane Fonda (who was down with the flu for Oprah Winfrey’s tribute).