Presumably there are reactions to last night’s news (broken by Deadline, followed up by everyone else) about Eddie Murphy being producer Brett Ratner‘s first choice to host the 2012 Oscar telecast. It’s by no means a locked deal but please have at it.

I saw Murphy perform live gigs twice in the early ’80s, and as hilarious as he was back then his material was about 80% X-rated scatalogical (anal wonderland, trim, suck my dick, “Mr. T in a gay bar,” etc.) — that’s where his comic mind naturally went back then. So unless he’s turned into the new Mort Sahl I wonder where he could take his monologue within a straight-jacketed network TV broadcast. Plus Murphy has never been a social-cultural commentator type — he riffs about his own realm. Plus I don’t feel Murphy is really part of the 21st Century zeitgeist — he’s basically a rich ’80s and ’90s guy who’s hung in there.

My strongest Murphy-Oscar association is that of the sorehead who bolted out of the Kodak theatre after not winning Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Dreamgirls.

No, I haven’t seen Tower Heist (11.4) and for all I know Murphy may be great in it and will get a second wind, etc.

Hollywood Reporter awards-season correspondent Scott Feinberg has posted a good audio interview with Albert Nobbs star-producer-cowriter Glenn Close. He reminds that Close collected five Oscar nominations in seven years (’82 to ’89) — a nomination tally matched only by Greer Garson, Bette Davis and Meryl Streep.

For me Close’s two best nominated performances were the psychopathic rabbit-killing witch in Fatal Attraction and the ultra-perverse schemer in Dangeorus Liasons. Followed by Jennie Fields in The World According to Garp, Kevin Kline‘s soulful wife in The Big Chill, and “the blonde in the bleachers” in The Natural.

“Most of our discussion, of course, centered around Albert Nobbs,” Feinberg notes. “The memorable way in which she first encountered the source material 29 years ago; what about it appealed to her enough to pursue a cinematic adaptation of it ever since; how she manipulated her voice, posture (she says Charlie Chaplin was a key model), and face (she switched from downcast to wide-eyed mid-film) to the extent that she could pass as a man,” etc.

Complaint: The subhead of Feinberg’s piece says “The 5-time Oscar nominee grants THR the first interview since her film premiered [at Telluride].” This implies that Close and her publicist David Pollick chose Feinberg and THR above all to speak to first. That’s not how it went down. Feinberg, yes, was technically the first guy to speak to her yesterday morning inside the Chuck Jones theatre lobby, but we were all there at the same time — Feinberg, myself, Sasha Stone, Kris Tapley, Anne Thompson, etc. Stone and I spoke to Close after Feinberg finished, and then Tapley and Thompson. My short piece went up around 9 am LA time, Tapley’s a little bit before, and Feinberg’s posted at 2 pm.

In terms of delivering solid, exciting creme de la creme fall releases the Telluride Film Festival, for all its soothing aromas and enjoyments, has felt thin to me. The Descendants thus far has been the only solid triple/home run. That could change with today’s dual showings of Steve McQueen‘s Shame, which the Guardian‘s Xan Brooks and other Venice Film Festival have mostly raved about.

Michael Fassbender in Steve McQueen’s Shame, the Telluride Film Festival’s last best hope to at least match the Descendants buzz.

David Cronenberg‘s A Dangerous Method will also screen twice in Telluride today, but that psycho-sexual period drama has already been relegated to some extent by Venice reviewers (along with George Clooney‘s The Ides of March) to the solid B or B-plus category…maybe. Telluride reactions will obviously add to the mix, as will those at Toronto starting next weekend.

“Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan give dynamite performances in Shame, a terrific second feature from the British artist Steve McQueen,” writes Brooks.

“Fassbender is Brandon, a sex-addicted corporate drone, directing a radioactive stare at random women across the aisle on the New York subway. Mulligan plays Sissy, his sister, who sings for her supper, self-harms for kicks and is surely pointed towards disaster. ‘We’re not bad people,’ Sissy assures her sibling. ‘We just come from a bad place.’

“Specifically this place is Manhattan, which McQueen depicts as a hell of sterile offices, anonymous apartments and desperate pick-up joints, though it may conceivably refer to the world at large.

Shame feels less formal, less rooted in the language of the art installation than McQueen’s previous film, Hunger, and is all the more satisfying for that. This is fluid, rigorous, serious cinema; the best kind of adult movie. There are glimmers of American Gigolo to its pristine sheen and echoes of Midnight Cowboy to the scratchy, mutual dependence of the damaged duo at the core.

“For her big showstopper at a downtown nightclub, Sissy takes the stage to croon her way through a haunting, little-girl-lost rendition of New York, New York, slowing the pace and milking the pathos. Brandon sits at the back, his jaw locked, his eyes welling. In the song’s melting, dying fall, he catches a glimpse of the lie behind the tinsel and smells the inevitable death of all her dreams, and maybe his dreams as well.”

Variety‘s Justin Chang says the following in his opening graph: “Few filmmakers have plumbed the soul-churning depths of sexual addiction as fearlessly as British director Steve McQueen has in Shame.

“A mesmerizing companion piece to Hunger, this more approachable but equally uncompromising drama likewise fixes its gaze on the uses and abuses of the human body, as Michael Fassbender again strips himself down, in every way an actor can, for McQueen’s rigorous but humane interrogation. Confrontational subject matter and matter-of-fact explicitness will position the film at the higher end of the specialty market, but it’s certain to arouse critical acclaim and smart-audience interest wherever it’s shown.”

Deadline‘s Pete Hammond wrote early this morning that Jim Field Smith‘s Butter “played like gangbusters at its first packed screening at [Telluride’s] Galaxy theatre” and that “there were big laughs for the small-town, butter-carving satire.”

Butter star-producer Jennifer Garner, director Jim Field Smith prior to last night’s screening.

I would politely dispute that account as I was in the same theatre. There were certainly laughs from time to time (even I guffawed five or six times) but my general impression was that audience energy levels eventually turned flat. Because after the first 25 or 30 minutes it was clear that the filmmakers weren’t interested in investing any real human truth or honest emotional underpinnings to any of the characters — with one or two exceptions they’re all playing exaggerated satirical types. And worked-out, semi-logical motivations are few and far between. And so the audience was going, I inferred, “Okay, this is ‘funny’ from time to time but it’s not really delivering.”

I would love to have fun with a smart comedy that skewers Middle America and Jennifer Garner‘s Michelle Bachmann-like character, but Butter is sloppily written and poorly motivated and simply not a class act.

Garner’s rightwing bitch is so shrill and constipated and borderline psychopathic that it’s impossible to laugh at or with her after the first half-hour or so. Yara Shahidi , a 10-year-old African-American girl who plays the instigating lead, is the one uncompromised bright note, and is obviously pretty and appealing. Ty Burrell, playing Garner’s hapless, low-key husband, is okay for the most part. But Olivia Wilde‘s stripper character and Hugh Jackman ‘s car-salesman doofus are written too crudely and illogically.

Comedies have to be funny, obviously, but they never work unless they’ve been written and constructed like drama. Once you say, “Oh, we’re just making a ‘comedy’ so we can goof off and make fun of this and that and throw reality out the window,” you’re finished.

Butter was being compared last night to Michael Ritchie‘s Smile (’75), an admired satire about a teenaged beauty competition in Santa Rosa. Forget it, nowhere near, not even close. Hammond mentioned Alexander Payne‘s Election as another similarity. No way in hell — Butter isn’t remotely in the same league. I tweeted last night that Butter “is not, repeat NOT, the new Little Miss Sunshine, as some have suggested. Michael Arndt‘s Oscar-winning Sunshine script is heads and shoulders above.”

My first tweet, posted 30 minutes after the screening broke: “Why did the Telluride Film Festival, a mecca for quality, screen a socio-political satire as thin, silly and haphazardly written as Butter?”

Hammond reports that the film “may get a year end release from the Weinstein Company to qualify for awards, especially Golden Globes.” That’s a code term, that last clause.

So the mob is going apeshit over Warrior, and I think it’s just a rousing, brother-against-brother, forgiving-and-healing, emotionally manipulative MMA movie. Rank-and-file festivalgoers are creaming over The Artist…every Telluride viewer I’ve spoken to loves it…and I think it’s just a clever, assured, highly diverting curio — a tribute to the lore of black-and-white silent cinema and the divergent-Hollywood-career plot used by Singin’ in the Rain and A Star Is Born. And women of all shapes and sizes and social classes love The Help, and we all know the name of that tune.

So what am I to do? Do a flip-flop and say I was wrong but now I’ve seen the light? Twist my neck 180 degrees like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and say, “You know what I did? I saw three Best Picture contenders and failed to recognize them as such”?

I don’t think so. I know precisely how good these three films are, and they’re all con jobs. They aren’t Illuminating Truth-Tellers. They aren’t addressing the deep bedrock stuff. They’re all highly accomplished entertainments, but don’t tell me they’re serious Best Picture contenders. None of them dramatize or illuminate some aspect of our common experience all that primally or skillfully or meaningfully. They’re all about their own realms and realities — the racist South of the early ’60s, the movie business in the late 1920s, the secular world of Mixed Martial Arts. You come out the theatre saying, “Well, that was good but it wasn’t about any place I live in…later.”

If they all become Best Picture nominees, fine. If Hollywood Elsewhere gets to run ads supporting these films, great. And if one of them wins….forget it, won’t happen. Or at the very least it shouldn’t.

Here, thanks to Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone for sharing a video of the q & a that followed yesterday afternoon’s screening of The Descendants at the Chuck Jones theatre. Hollywood Reporter critic Todd McCarthy moderated the stand-up chat session with George Clooney, Shailene Woodley and director-writer Alexander Payne.

And by the way, Sasha’s chuckling improves the video — it makes it feel more natural and technically unpretentious and real-timey.

Glenn Close gives a classic minimalist performance in Albert Nobbs. One defined by a restricted palette and limited moves, but no less expressive for that. The great Kristin Scott Thomas went to this well, of course, in I Loved You For So Long, and the legendary Steve McQueen (the dead one, not the director of Shame) was surely one of the reigning minimalist actors of the 20th Century. So there’s a tradition here, a realm, and Close knows exactly how to operate within it.

Albert Nobbs star Glenn Close — Saturday, 9.3, 9:45 am inside Telluride Mountain Village’s Chuck Jones theatre.

Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone and I did a tag-team interview with Close about an hour ago inside the Chuck Jones theatre lobby, and I wish I had the time to describe it in some detail.

I noted the giving-less, showing-more tone of her performance, and asked what the difference was between playing Albert Nobbs on stage in the early ’80s and in the film. Stage acting is always a bit more expressive, but the central current in Nobbs’ character is trauma and repression — a woman who was brutally raped as a youth, who has hidden her identity, who’s constantly fearful of being discovered. So Close played it that way in both formats.

I recorded the chat and will elaborate upon the topics we covered later today or tonight, but you have to bang it out fast and move on when you’re covering a festival. No lounging around and sipping green tea as you carefully sculpt sentences and paragraphs.

I have to catch Werner Herzog‘s Into The Abyss doc at 12 noon…outta here.

Glenn Close and Rodrigo Garcia‘s Albert Nobbs screened last night at Telluride’s Galaxy theatre to, it must be said, a somewhat muted reaction. With the exception, I should add, of Janet McTeer‘s brilliant supporting performance as Hubert, a woman pretending to be a man.

Nobbs came to Telluride with the advance buzz being that Close might be delivering an Oscar-calibre performance. Close is striking, no question — she’s playing a sad, curious inhabitant of a long-ago era in a granular, highly concentrated way — but McTeer’s performance has the dignity, heart and heat.

Close’s Nobbs, a 19th Century Dublin waiter living her life as a male for both economic and emotional reasons, is a very odd bird. Porcelain, cautious, corseted and buttoned-down to a fare-thee-well. And flagrantly asexual. For Nobbs the gender facade is all — hiding who she is an absolute. This obviously renders her as a metaphor for repression, but Nobbs is so primly Victorian that she hasn’t the first clue about anything remotely emotional and/or sensual. She sees marriage as an opportunity for companionship and mutual economic endeavor.

So there’s really nothing in the character to relate to from a 2011 perspective other than the sad fact that she’s some kind of ultimate closet case. It’s not enough to pull and hold you in. Nobbs wants a female wife, but is so uninvested in the universal human longing for love and laughter and whatever else makes your day. She’s interested primarily — only — in security and saving her money and perhaps one day owning a tobacconist shop. More on this later– have to dash up to an interview.

Albert Nobbs is slated for a limited release sometime in December.

A friend writes: “The Butter script was number three on the Black List and was one of the funniest scripts I’ve read in years. If the movie comes even close to the script, it will be this year’s Little Miss Sunshine.

“Plot is the story of a young black girl who doesn’t like white people (hilarious reverse politically incorrect racism), is adopted (for the one hundredth time — she never unpacks her bags) by a very, very whitebread Midwestern family

On the other side of town, the guy who wins the butter carving competition (regarded as the local Academy Awards) is asked to drop out this year because he always wins and there’s no contest. His wife, a social climbing wing nut, sees her status as Wife of First Prize Winner dropping so she decides to enter instead

The contestants sculpt butter like high art — the Pieta, the Thinker, etc. — and take

it a little too seriously, like the stage moms in Sunshine. So the big-haired wife/bitch takes on the very talented and newly discovered butter artist black orphan

“And the games begin.”

Pics from this morning’s Telluride Film Festival Patron’s Brunch, which was held on a scenic elevated pasture some 20 minutes out of town, slightly to the west of the Telluride airport. Splendid food, killer scenery, great company, gang’s all here, etc.

This guy never stops quipping, charming, posing for pictures, etc. Indefatigable smoothie. And a likely Best Actor contender, trust me, after this morning’s screening of The Descendants.

N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott, his son Ezra.

Pina director Wim Wenders, Into The Abyss helmer Werner Herzog.

(l. to r.) N.Y. Film Festival honcho Scott Foundas, Allan Arkush, publicist Jessica Uzzan.

Albert Nobbs director Rodrigo Garcia, Glenn Close.