Produced by, partially written by and co-starring Jonah Hill, 22 Jump Street opens on 6.13.14. I was down with the tone and shape of 21 Jump Street (except for the generic action ending) so this’ll probably be okay. Phil Lord and Christopher Miller are directing again. Hill co-penned the story that Michael Bacall and Oren Uziel’s script is based on.

The Broadcast Film Critics Association (BFCA) has announced the nominees for the 19th Annual Critics’ Choice Movie Awards, and the leaders are 12 Years a Slave and American Hustle with 13 nominations each. To more than a casual extent the BFCA has tended to reflect or predict Academy sentiments (they were the first to signal last year’s Argo rebound) so this is a huge shot in the arm for both films, not to mention the absolute ignominious end for Saving Mr. Banks as a credible Best Picture contender. Pay up, Scott Feinberg!

Gravity did pretty well also with ten nominations, but it’s been downgraded to runner-up status. At this stage of the game it can be fairly said without prejudice or rancor that while Gravity has a clear following, it’s no longer the Big Kahuna of Best Picture contenders. The picture has changed. Right now it’s the masterful Slave vs. the widely admired and enjoyed Hustle. No softies! This is a good thing.

The Wolf of Wall Street, Her, Captain Phillips and Nebraska received six nominations. Inside Llewyn Davis, August: Osage County, Enough Said, Saving Mr. Banks, Iron Man 3 and Rush received four nominations.

The BFCA dropped the ball big-time by failing to nominate The Wolf Of Wall Street‘s Leonardo DiCaprio for Best Actor or Jonah Hill for Best Supporting Actor. This isn’t just an oversight — it’s an unconscionable “what?”

The BFCA also showed their clubby, mainstream, celebrity-kowtowing colors by failing to nominate Blue Is The Warmest Color‘s Adele Exarchopoulos for Best Actress. (They chose instead to nominate her as one of year’s Best Young Actor/Actresses — a humiliating consolation prize.) The BFCA did, to be fair, nominate Brie Larson for Short Term 12, but they mostly went for a roster of established, name-brand actresses whose campaigns have been well-funded and vigorously publicized — Cate Blanchett, Sandra Bullock, Judi Dench, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson.

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This is a stab at an iPhone obituary for Joan Fontaine, whose death at age 96 was reported today. (I’m sitting at a Pete’s Coffee across the street from the Aero, where Michael Mann‘s digitally reconstituted Thief will screen at 7:30 pm.). I heard of her departure a couple of hours ago, and like everyone else I flashed back to Fontaine’s vulnerable, haunted performance as Laurence Olivier‘s young second wife in David O. Selznick and Alfred Hitchcock‘s Rebecca, the 1940 melodrama that launched her as a big-name actress.

Fontaine won a Best Actress Oscar for playing another vulnerable, haunted wife (this time betrothed to Cary Grant‘s disreputable Johnny Aysgarth) in Hitchcock’s Suspicion, which opened the following year. But Fontaine seems a bit trapped in this possible-murder tale in more ways than one. Suspicion is a somewhat flawed film because of a notorious cop-out ending. She seems a fool for forgiving and supporting Grant at the end. Rebecca is the better crafted effort, I feel, not to mention spookier (it’s a kind of ghost story) and more atmospheric. Fontaine is much more anguished and aching in it. She carries a greater load on her back.

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This is a portion of a DVD Beaver frame capture from the new Arrow Bluray of Robert Altman‘s The Long Goodbye (’73). So $5000 bills (last printed in 1934) were actually kicking around in the early ’70s? Printed money doesn’t gain in value as the years roll on, of course, but the U.S. Labor Department inflation counter says the purchasing power of $5 grand in ’73 was/is equal to around $26 grand today. So finding a $5000 bill “in a box of Crackerjacks,” as Elliot Gould‘s Phillip Marlowe explained to Mark Rydell‘s Marty Augustine, was quite a discovery.

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At age 81, the great Peter O’Toole has shuffled off this mortal coil. A legendary lover of drink, a magnificent royalist, a classical actor for the ages with one of the most beautiful speaking voices ever heard. Fire in the blood and diction to die for. O’Toole was a legendary personality (he could be great on talk shows), the half-mad blonde beauty of Lawrence of Arabia, an inhabitor of King Henry II (twice), the wonderfully spirited fellow who rebounded with The Stunt Man, the voice of the gourmand in Ratatouille…a brilliant man in so many respects. In private he could be a bit of snob (or at least with the occasional journalist) but when he chose to be “on” O’Toole snapped and crackled like lightning.

He had five peak periods in his career — the first three years (’61 to ’64) starting with his being hired to play T.E. Lawrence and then making the film and exploding onto the scene when Lawrence of Arabia opened in late ’62, and then following up with his best performance ever as King Henry II in Peter Glenville‘s Becket. He lost “it” for a period in the mid ’60s but then got it back as Henry redux in Anthony Harvey‘s The Lion in Winter (’68). Then he returned again with that hilarious performance as a hippie-ish paranoid schizophrenic in The Ruling Class (’72). The fourth rebound happened between ’80 and ’82 with his performances in The Stunt Man, the TV epic Masada and My Favorite Year. The fifth and final rebound happened in the mid aughts with Troy, Venus and his voicing role in Ratatouille.

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A friend invited me to an event party last night on Willoughby, about a block south of the Formosa Cafe. I was immediately concerned when she said it was open to the public and that all I had to do was rsvp on Facebook. I’ll walk into any dive bar in any down-at-the-heels scumbag neighborhood in the world but I haven’t attended a Facebook-rsvp event in my life — it sounded horrible. When the door guy (heavy-set, African-American…what else?) said “show me your ID” I scowled and turned and walked back to the car. Okay, I’m spoiled. I’ve been getting invited to elite media events for 30-plus years. I’m easily unimpressed.

I honestly feel that West Hollywood’s Astro Burger is one of the most attractively designed commercial establishments in all of Los Angeles. This is what Vegan/health food restaurants lack — that sparkly, 1950s-era American Graffiti drive-in vibe.

I asked the guy in the Santa suit what he and his girlfriends were doing in the Santa suits and he said, “Uhhm…celebrating the holiday?” And I said, “Really…on your own volition?” And I asked to take their photo. This happened last night around 8:45 pm in a Ralph’s on La Brea.

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If there was a God, The Wolf of Wall Street and 12 Years A Slave would be the big neck-and-neck competitors for the Best Picture Oscar with everyone except for the harumphs going “yes, of course…are you kidding me?” But we live in a Godless and narcotized realm with the Slave resistance and the over-65 default crowd still running the conversation. But if Gravity continues to slowly deflate (Sandra Bullock‘s quote about how it was “supposed to be an amusement ride” let some air out of the balloon), there’s a growing chance that American Hustle, which everyone really admires and which has opened very strongly this weekend, could slide in for a win. It’s possible. I would be content with this. Saving Mr. Banks may not be finished as a nominee but it certainly can’t win. Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Inside Llewyn Davis, Jean Marc Vallee‘s Dallas Buyer’s Club, Spike Jonze‘s Her — these are the films that deserve the highest consideration alongside Wolf and Slave, but those damn softies (i.e., the crowd that voted for Argo, The Artist and The King’s Speech) won’t get with the program.

Posted on 8.21

Cecil B. DeMille was a pious hypocrite. The theme of his Biblical-era films was spiritual salvation through the Bible, but no other studio-era filmmaker shovelled sex, female flesh, big muscles, debauchery and blood with more relish. On top of which he was a Republican who believed in the blacklisting practices of the late ’40s and early ’50s. But he had a fairly decent eye for balance and composition — almost as good as John Ford‘s. He knew how to fill the frame, and his films were handsomely dressed and designed. Samson and Delilah (’49) is swill, of course. The dialogue by Jesse L. Lasky, Jr. and Fredric M. Frank is agony. But George Barnes’ Technicolor cinematography is ripe and richly toned. The Bluray streets in early March.

New York snowfalls never last. The weather is constantly shifting and mooding out. A snowfall always turns to slush within a day or less. It’s 27 degrees now but the melting will begin tomorrow when the temperature hits 35, and then Sunday’s rain will wash it all away.

The Dissolve is running a “psychedelic” poster inspired by Spring Breakers. It was designed by Sam Smith. My first thought was “this conveys nothing of what the film actually is or feels like…nothing about it from the rosey greenish tones to the suggestion of familial bonding and the sublime, settled-down feeling that a sunset shares…Harmony Korine‘s film has so little of these elements that it’s barely worth commenting upon. Oh, I get it…Smith was tripping when he created it?”

Two nights ago I watched the Criterion Bluray of Robert Altman‘s Nashville (’75). And guess what? It doesn’t hold up. It’s earnestly dislikable. I wanted to shut it off after the first half-hour.

It’s a typical Altmanesque grab-bag of this and that, but it’s mainly a social criticism piece about Middle-American politics, patriotism, pettiness and celebrity. The specific focus is the banal eccentricities and pretensions of the country-music industry, but for the most part the film is snide and misanthropic. Sorry, but I’m removing it from my Altman pantheon. I loved it in ’75 but I’m pretty sure I’ll never watch Nashville again. It’s failed the test of time.

In basic construction terms Nashville is about a troupe of eccentric, improvising actor-hipsters leaning on their default Left Coast impressions of Nashville’s sophisticated-hick culture and dispensing variations on a single dismissive theme: “These people are small and petty and lame and delusional.”

The late Gwen Welles plays a short-order waitress and a completely untalented would-be singer. I’ve known a few mediocre performers in my life (actors, singers…I was one myself when I tried to be a drummer) and the common characteristic is that they’re somewhat talented but not talented enough. But Welles’ bad singing is a patronizing “bit” — an actress pretending to be God-awful. In actuality a singer with a voice this tone-deaf wouldn’t dream of trying to become a performer. But try she does.

Welles’ big scene arrives when she tries singing at a club and fails so miserably that the crowd hurls cruel taunts and insults. Welles is so deflated by the response that she goes numb. Her eyes space out and she starts disrobing because some drunken asshole has yelled “show us yer tits!” or something in that vein. She ends up naked and humiliated, but I, sitting in my living room 38 years later, was appalled. I felt sick. I haven’t watched a scene this ugly in a long, long time.