Millions. I’m presuming, are about to see A Good Day to Die Hard. Perhaps waiting in long lines in Manhattan as we speak. Overheard: “I don’t care how shitty this latest installment may be — I have to see it anyway.” For Joe Popcorn quality is not the thing — it’s the return of a comfort brand. Any New Yorker with any kind of investment in seeing good movies or who knows or cares anything about the world in he/she lives will pay to see No this weekend.

Marshall Fine found a moment of clarity in his review:

“By the point Bruce Willis’s John McClane gets to this fifth outing, he’s like Roger Moore in one of those early 1980s James Bond abominations, like Octopussy or For Your Eyes Only: carried along by the conventions of the form and commenting on them, rather than simply being part of them. Suddenly he’s a guy who goes looking for people to kill, instead of fighting for his life.”

“Look, I don’t hate Dances With Wolves,” Grantland‘s Brian Koppleman wrote yesterday. Hah! We all know what’s coming, right? But we all agree emphatically with what’s about to be said and we’re already on our feet and cheering in the stands. Let ’em have it, Brian!

“Unlike most of my film-snob friends, I actually have a soft spot for [Dances]. I remember watching it in the theater and being moved enough to want to see it again. I cheered when the tatonka finally showed up and Kevin Costner‘s Lieutenant Dunbar got to ride to the American Indian camp and rouse them to the hunt. And speaking of Costner, I really like him, too. From Silverado to Company Men to the vastly underrated Thirteen Days, Costner’s appearance on screen always brings a smile to my face. And he directed the film with craft and artistry. So I have no problem with Dances With Wolves (and Costner himself) getting nominated in 1990.

“But if you’re asking me to be okay with the fact that both the film and Costner beat Goodfellas and Martin Scorsese? The answer would have to be: Go fuck yourself. Because that is undoubtedly the greatest travesty in Oscar history.”

In her favorable review of Pablo Larrain‘s No (which I’ve been raving about since catching it at last year’s Cannes Film Festival), N.Y. Times critic Manohla Dargis says that anyone who doesn’t challenge brute cops who are hurting a loved one is a coward. Inside a police station? Under a brutal South American dictatorship?

“As it is, Rene [Gael Garcia Bernal] is one of those compromised characters whose obvious virtues run a tight race with his flaws. In one early scene he doesn’t just stand by when [his ex-partner and mother of his son] Veronica is beaten by cops; he also recoils from the violence. It’s unclear if Rene is a garden-variety coward, afraid of physical harm, or whether his fear is a manifestation of a deeper moral stain.”

If you’re afraid of getting punched or kicked or clubbed you’re a candy-ass? Everybody recoils from violence. I’ve been there and the first reaction is always to flinch and withdraw. You have to push past that and do the stand-up thing, of course, but I’m not sure that being “afraid of physical harm” constitutes cowardice.

We all like to think that we’d all “do something” if someone near and dear is being shoved around by the bulls, and I agree that anyone who cowers in fear in such a situation lacks intestinal fortitude. You need to rush forward and gesture and say or shout something — “Hey, leave her alone! Get the fuck off her!” But a guy who dives right into a group of cop thugs who are shoving and beating their captives…? I’ve tasted this. Anyone who’s been in the immediate vicinity of brutality knows what I’m talking about.

A single meteorite or a cluster of meteorite fragments slammed into earth a few hours ago. It happened about 50 miles west of Chelyabinsk, adjacent to Russia’s Ural mountains, around 9:20 am. (Which is what…2:20 am NY time?) Decent video captures. It hit at a shallow angle, which seems curious if you don’t know anything about air density and the tendency of any brute missile entering the atmosphere to plane and be deflected. But that’s how it works, I think.

I’d love to hear recordings of the impact, which these videos don’t really deliver. No one was killed, but more than 700 people were hurt by flying glass shards. Chelyabinsk is about 950 miles east of Moscow. Who would ever want to visit, much less live, in a place like this? Bartender, pour me a double right now.

If Steven Spielberg used this occurence in a movie, he’d show Russians looking up at the meteorite with their “awe faces” as a white Kaminski light flares up the exposure.

“The Vegas odds will tell you exactly what the Gold Derby odds are telling you,” Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone wrote earlier today. “There is no difference because they’re all drawing from the same thought pool. The way things are going now, though, I wonder if there will ever be any surprises again.

“I don’t think a movie like The Godfather or The Godfather Part II could run the gauntlet today and win [Best Picture]. It couldn’t overcome the giant guilds picking what they Facebook-liked over a masterpiece. Nor the nastiness we saw in this year’s race. Can you imagine?”

Translation: Sasha is still crestfallen about her eloquent and masterful Lincoln having lost in this year’s race, and about the takedown jabs (including what seemed to me like a crucial anti-Lincoln Sweet Spot observation from N.Y. Times columnist David Carr) that might have had some marginal effect. But I wonder if either of the Godfather flicks might indeed have trouble winning in today’s environment. Thoughts?

Forget what actually happened in this real-life news story, which broke a day or so ago. The basic premise, you have to admit, is kinda funny if Melissa McCarthy is the marriage counselor and Kevin James is the husband. A sexually ruthless marriage counselor fits McCarthy’s screen persona (i.e., the nutter who’s oblivious to her own appalling behavior) to a T. I don’t know who should play the wife but this is definitely a megaplex flick if you ignore the real-life ramifications.

Errands, conversations, bank visits, meetings, chance encounters, crosstown hikes and the constant Starbucks filings. Today is one of those Manhattan catch-as-catch-can days. 23rd Street and above. No downtown, no Brooklyn, no nothing. I always take pics and videos on days like this — partly just to do it, partly so I can look back and say “this is what it felt like that day,” and partly so I can post them so I can get back outside and take more pics and videos.

Everybody always looks grim and stern and mildly pissed on the streets, but that’s not a reflection of where they’re at. It’s a kind of performance, really. Because they’re all just walking around with their New York street faces. I’m steady and cool and so are you (or so it seems at a glance) but don’t even think of trying to fuck with me. I do it too. In fact I’m having a pretty great time. Isn’t everybody? This is one of the greatest…I was going to say it’s one of the greatest walking-around, face-watching, never-a-dull-moment cities in the world. It is that, I guess, but there are many, many other cities that can make that claim. Paris, Hanoi, London, Rome, Prague, Toronto.

What a drab and mortifying finish for one of the most innovative and delicious and beautifully photographed and superbly choreographed and exceptionally well acted films of 2012 — to end up in a video parlor on 8th Avenue in the mid ’40s with a yellow sticker on the jacket.

GoGo in-flight wifi raised their prices significantly last September….capitalist wolverines.

There’s nothing wrong with a highly respected, Oscar-winning filmmaker making a popcorn thriller that uses stylish menace, bad guys, hypnotherapy, sexuality, sadism and the hero going “aarrgghhh!” to punch up ticket sales. Plus I’m trusting that Danny Boyle will do the right thing. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle is another plus. Ditto Vincent Cassel as the arch-villain.

The best thing about it, of course, is the Dali-esque touch with the head-blown-off guy (is that Cassel?) talking like a chicken with its head cut off.

I’m not sure I like James McAvoy any more. I don’t know what it is but he bothers me. And I really don’t like scenes in which the main protagonist is held down and made to feel so much acute pain that he goes “Aaarrggghhh!”

Another comfort factor is knowing that Fox Searchlight doesn’t release crap.

The embargo only just broke, but John Moore‘s A Good Day To Die Hard is at 9% on Rotten Tomatoes. For those millions who refuse to even glance at review sites and who select movies solely based on instinct and the effectiveness of the trailers, a 9% means that you’re going to feel pissed, soiled and badly burned.

Moore and screenwriter Skip Woods know the drill by now, I’m sure. They need to put on fishing hats with the brims pulled down, put on a pair of Ray Ban shades, hop in the Audi and head out to the desert and stay there until this blows over. Why would they want to stay in LA this weekend? “Hey, John…how ya doin’, man? Hey, uhm…(quietly) what’s this I hear about your Die Hard flick being really shitty, man? Like you killed the franchise or something. That true?”

“Everything that made the first memorable — the nuances of character, the political subtext, the cowboy wit — has been dumbed down or scrubbed away entirely. I’m not saying I wish it was the ’80s again — or maybe I am. If that makes me a grumpy old man, it’s John McClane‘s fault.” — from A.O. Scott‘s N.Y. Times review.

Earlier today Grantland‘s Mark Lisanti posted a lavishly illustrated piece (tip of the hat to Mark Weinstein) called “Oscar Travesties! A tournament to determine the worst Academy Award moment in modern history.” You have to go to the site’s Facebook page to vote. I agree with almost all the dark Oscar moments listed except one. The Bill Murray travesty wasn’t him losing the Best Actor for Lost in Translation — it was Murray not being nominated for Rushmore.

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