Last week Edge of Tomorrow director Doug Liman explained its appeal to London journos, who had been shown a teaser reel of the Warner Bros. sci-fi thriller, to wit: “If you love Tom Cruise, you see him giving a genius performance, and if you hate Tom Cruise he dies like 200 times [in this thing]. Here, he is a total coward. The amount of times he squeals in this movie — he’s an amazing squealer! Other movie stars would have been more hesitant about being that vulnerable.”

Of course Cruise is “that vulnerable.” Joel Goodson is now 51 years old (52 on 7.3.14). He looks healthy and is obviously in great shape, but the fact that he more or less looks his age means he can now use that faintly haggard, vaguely weathered look to his acting advantage. If they last long enough, all good-looking actors are in a kind of golden period when they hit their late 40s and 50s. The natural expressiveness that comes with being older (and having acquired a few scars, bruises and regrets along the way) deepens their game.

If they were to remake The Firm (which came out 20 years ago) Cruise could now play Gene Hackman‘s role, the spry but corrupt mafia attorney with a weakness for the ladies. Cruise is roughly where Burt Lancaster was when he was on his last lap as an action star in his early to mid 50s, making The Train and The Professionals and The Scalphunters.

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The New Yorker‘s Tad Friend has written a fine, fascinating, first-hand, notepad-and-shoe-leather tale of Darren Aronofsky‘s making and editing of Noah, and the subsequent pushbacks from Paramount executives who have wanted all along, naturally, like all studio guys, to simply maximize profits. The article appeared Sunday night. Required reading, very good stuff, makes you hungry to see Noah, which opens on 3.28. “I don’t give a fuck about the test scores!,” Aronofsky tells Friend. “My films are outside the scores. Ten men in a room trying to come up with their favorite ice cream are going to agree on vanilla. I’m the Rocky Road guy.”

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The $800K weekend gross and $200K per-screen average by Wes Anderson‘s The Grand Budapest Hotel means, of course, that Anderson fans came out in strength. “What’s happening with Wes Anderson is he’s entered into Woody Allen territory,” Boxoffice.com’s Phil Contrino (a longtime HE pally) told TheWrap‘s Brent Lang yesterday. “He’s established a brand and…audiences show up in droves because they know it’s a good break from typical blockbusters.” But next weekend’s haul will depend, of course, on what Average Joes (i.e., viewers who like or respect but don’t necessarily worship Anderson’s signature style) are saying. I don’t mean to insult HE readers by suggesting they’re motley normals, but could I get some Budapest reactions?

For much of my life I’ve cherished the ritualized reading of the Sunday New York Times, which Tom Wolfe described in 1974 as “that great public bath, that vat, that spa, that regional physio-therapy tank, that White Sulphur Springs, that Marienbad, that Ganges, that River Jordan for a million souls.” Well, the print version of that vat, that spa, that River Jordan for a million souls has been arriving on my doormat since I signed up for Sunday morning delivery, which is the cheapest deal that allows for full digital access to the Times. And the truth is that I almost never take my Sunday edition to the cafe next door and order breakfast and, as Wolfe wrote, “slip into it like a warm bath.” I just don’t want it around for the most part. The bulk of it, the ink smudges, the folding and re-folding the paper, etc. That said, the daily issue is cool. And I still like reading newspapers in Europe. Somehow different over there.

The final episode of Cary Fukunaga and Nic Pizzolatto‘s True Detective (titled “Form and Void”) airs tonight. Yesterday’s plan to marathon through the six episodes I hadn’t seen (#2 to #7) didn’t pan out — I only watched #2 and #3. I could, of course, sit down and watch #4 through #7 today but…all right, I might do this. #4 and #5 anyway. I just bought another bike yesterday (my third — two previous bikes were stolen) and I feel like roaming around today. Eff it — I’m just going to read the synopses on the Wiki page. Update: Up on everything. Have now seen episode #6.

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I slightly know a woman who paints all day long and sometimes into the night. She doesn’t recognize weekends or weekdays. She just gets up and paints like a fool. Under the usual circumstances this in itself would make her, in my eyes, a fairly serious artist, regardless of her talent. Unfortunately she’s also a devout Christian who believes that God is guiding her every brushstroke. In a sense He/She/It is doing that, but by speaking literally of God as her co-pilot, this woman somehow makes Herman Melville‘s famous theological rumination, spoken by Captain Ahab in Moby Dick, seem banal: “Is Ahab Ahab? Is it I, God, or who that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself but is an errand boy in heaven, nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power…how then can this one small heart beat, this one small brain think thoughts, unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I?”

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The likeliest Best Picture contenders of 2014 will, as usual, be made by respected people with strong resumes and, as usual, contain strong, socially resonant material that will probably push mainstream buttons. Particularly among over-25 women. Two of the likeliest will be directed by women, and four will primarily be about women. Plus a couple of dramedies, a crime drama, an epic Biblical drama, two World War II dramas, a more-or-less modern war drama and so on. In a word, varied. Nobody knows anything and I’m obviously just guessing at this stage, but here are the films I’m presuming will be among the final picks:

1. Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu‘s comedic Birdman (seen in a rough version by a friend last July and described as AGI’s “best, most humanistic work!”); 2. J.C. Chandor‘s A Most Violent Year (’80s-set, Sidney Lumet-ish Manhattan crime drama); 3. Ridley Scott‘s Exodus (Ridley Scott/Kingdom of Heaven treatment given to Biblical tale of Moses, Egyptians and Hebrew slaves); 4. Angelina Jolie‘s Unbroken (World War II survival saga, All Is Lost/Life of Pi + Japanese prison camp); 5. Jean Marc Vallee‘s Wild (makeup-free Reese Witherspoon discovering herself and the American character on a long-distance hike); 6. Saul Dibbs‘ Suite Francaise (married rural-residing French woman has affair with German solder during World War II); 7. Michel Hazanavicius‘ The Search (remake of Fred Zinneman‘s same-titled 1948 film, relationship between a woman and a young boy in war-torn Chechnya, Berenice Bejo and Annette Bening costarring); 8. Jason Reitman‘s Men, Women & Chidren (ensemble social-sexual dramedy with Adam Sandler, Jennifer Garner, Judy Greer, et. al.) ; 9. Sarah Gavron‘s Suffragette (British-set, turn-of-the-century drama about female voting-rights struggle, script by The Queen‘s Abi Morgan, costarring Carey Mulligan, Helena Bonham Carter and Meryl Streep).

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I’ve read two South by Southwest reviews of Jon Favreau‘s Chef (one by Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn, another by Variety‘s Joe Leydon) and the general response is that Favreau has made a likable, agreeable, indie-styled dramedy. My problem is that I’m reluctant to settle into a film about an overweight chef. We all love to nibble down on tasty dishes but we don’t want to pay the price. Nobody does. Only teens and 20somethings can get away with eating like a pig, and sometimes not even them. I’m sorry but the metaphor of Favreau’s girth (he wasn’t in one of his slim-down modes when he shot the film and he still isn’t, to go by recent photos) speaks for itself. I don’t ever want to go there, and so I don’t feel that keen about seeing Chef. (Although I’ll see it for sure.) If Favreau was slim and trim I’d feel a whole different way. Sorry but that’s what it boils down to. Well, that and the reviews.

I seem to recall Glenn Kenny and Steven Gaydos taking issue with a statement in my initial Grand Budapest Hotel review that it feels “like Ernst Lubiitsch back from the dead.” In fact they sneered, pooh-poohed and put that comparison down but good. Now along comes Salon‘s Andrew O’Hehir describing Anderson’s latest as a “frothy Ernst Lubitsch-styled comedy.” This doesn’t mean that Kenny and Gaydos are dead wrong, but their harumphy dismissals of the Lubitsch connection have now been called into greater question. I’m not saying Kenny and Gaydos are running for tall grass, but they have to be thinking about that. Especially with Anderson having said the other night at the Aero was Lubitsch was an influence.

In a “Premature 2015 Best Picture Oscar Predictions” piece, Indiewire‘s Oliver Lyttleton has listed Carey Fukunaga‘s Beasts of No Nation as a highly likely Best Picture contender if it had any chance of being released this year. Except this seems unlikely as the film, an adaptation of Uzodinma Iweala‘s violent Africa-set novel, will only begin filming later this month. Lyttleton is all woo-woo because Fukunaga directed all eight episodes of HBO’s True Detective and he’s figuring the director of the masterful Sin Nombre is on a roll.

Lyttleton acknowledges that Beasts contains “material that threatens to be difficult to watch, but prognosticators worrying about that sort of thing have been proven wrong more than once of late (nominations for Amour and 12 Years A Slave winning), and a supporting role for Idris Elba should help bring in some eyes, plus this year’s race (so far) is rather lacking in ‘important fare.'”

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With all the sudden whackings and the rolling of heads over the past three or four years at the Film Society of Lincoln Center (Mara Manus hired and fired, Kent Jones departs and returns, Scott Foundas ascends and leaves, Rose Kuo takes over only to get whacked like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas), the 65th Street organization has resembled a cross between the House of Borgia and House of Cards. So reactions to Lesli Klainberg‘s appointment as Executive Director and Eugene Hernandez as Deputy Director have been something along the lines of “okay, let’s see how long they last before the next palace coup or mafia-styled garroting.” Seriously, best wishes to them both and particularly Eugene. (Note: Klainberg’s decision to re-create her first name, which was almost certainly “Leslie” when she was a kid, means…I don’t know what it means but “Lesli” feels a bit affected on some level.)