I for one am tremulous with concern about what Baz Luhrman is going to do with (and to) F. Scott Fitzgerald‘s The Great Gatsby when he begins shooting it in 3D later this year. Carey Mulligan is too diplomatic to voice fears along these lines, but she surely knows that Baz would sooner slit his throat than simply “film the book”.

My guess is that Luhrman’s conjuring of 1920s Long Island will be as authentic as his recreation of “belle epoque” Paris in Moulin Rouge, or maybe Zack Snyder‘s ancient Greece in 300.

The upside is that no matter how eccentric Luhrman’s version turns out to be, it’ll have more of a pulse than Jack Clayton’s 1974 version, widely regarded as one of the stiffest adaptations in Hollywood history. The downside is that Baz has been indulging his exuberant instincts more and more as he grows older. The Baz who made Strictly Ballroom or Romeo + Juliet, even, has pretty much disappeared.

The lineup, once more, will be Mulligan as Daisy Buchanan, Leonardo DiCaprio as Jay Gatsby, Tobey Maguire as Nick Carraway; Joel Edgerton as Tom Buchanan, Isla Fisher as Myrtle Wilson; and Elizabeth Debicki as Jordan Baker.

Yesterday evening N.Y. Times reporter Michael Cieply wrote about catching up with Werner Herzog, of all people, at ComicCon. The legendary 68 year-old filmmaker “was absorbing the Breughel-like atmospherics” while taking a break from a death-row documentary that he’s making with Erik Nelson.

Photo by Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone.

Also taken by Ms. Stone.

For my money, CNN’s Dr. Drew Pinsky has delivered the likeliest explanation of why Amy Winehouse is dead. “Opiate addiction takes months to years of treatment,” he explained yesterday. “And one of the most serous risks in my experience of that recovery for celebrities and particularly musicians is that they return to their career, they return to the road far too prematurely, and it’s absolutely predictable what will happen.

“People look at these stories and go, ‘Oh, addiction treatment doesn’t work.’ The crazy thing about addiction is that part of the disease is a disturbance of thinking [in which] addict tell themselves they don’t need to listen to what they’re being told to do.

“But just as with the diabetic, if they don’t take their insulin [and] the addict doesn’t do their recovery program, they inevitably in all cases will relapse, and if it’s opiate addiction, it’s a progrssion to fatality. The prognosis for an opiate addict is worse than the vast majority of cancers.”

The Observer‘s Tim Adams has written an excellent piece about comment-thread big-mouths that partially focuses on LexG. The article also looks at the anonymity factor, which I feel is vital for good frank chatter. Yes, HE’s very own LexG is shaking the rafters in England. (Adams twice asked for his email address, which I passed along. As there are no LexG quotes in the piece, it’s possible that he blew Adams off…just like he couldn’t be reached for a recent Oscar Poker podcast.)

“Some trolls have become nearly as famous as the blogs to which they attach themselves, in a curious, parasitical kind of relationship,” Adams writes.

“Jeffrey Wells, author of Hollywood Elsewhere, is a former LA Times Syndicate columnist who has been blogging inside stories about movies for 15 years. For the last couple of years his gossip and commentary has been dogged by the invective of a character called LexG, whose 200-odd self-loathing and wildly negative posts recently moved Wells to address him directly:

“‘The coarseness, the self-pity and the occasional eye-pokes and cruel dismissiveness have to be turned down. Way down. Arguments and genuine disdain for certain debaters can be entertaining, mind. I’m not trying to be Ms. Manners. But there finally has to be an emphasis on perception and love and passion and the glories of good writing. There has to be an emphasis on letting in the light rather than damning the darkness of the trolls and vomiting on the floor and kicking this or that Hollywood Elsewhere contributor in the balls…’

“When I spoke to Wells about LexG, he was philosophical. ‘Everybody on the site writes anonymously, except me,’ he says. ‘If they didn’t I think it would cause them to dry up. This place is like a bubble in which you can explode, let the inner lava out. And, boy, is there a lot of lava.’

“He has resisted insisting that people write under their own name because that would kill the comments instantly. ‘Why would you take that one in 100 chance that your mother or a future employer will read what you were thinking late one night a dozen years ago if you didn’t have to?’ For haters, Wells believes, anonymity makes for livelier writing. ‘It’s a trick, really — the less you feel you will be identified, the more uninhibited you can be.

“At his best LexG really knows how to write well and hold a thought and keep it going. He is relatively sane but certainly not a happy guy. He’s been doing this a couple of years now and he really has become a presence; he does it on all the Hollywood sites.’

“Have they ever met?

“‘Just once,’ Wells says. ‘I asked him to write a column of his own, give him a corner of the site, bring him out in the open.’ LexG didn’t want to do it; he seemed horrified at the prospect. ‘He just wanted to comment on my stuff,’ Wells suggests. ‘He’s a counter-puncher, I guess. The rules on my site remain simple, though. No ugly rancid personal comments directed against me. And no Tea Party bullshit.”

“The big problem [Wells] finds running the blog is that his anonymous commenters get a kind of pack mentality. And the comments quickly become a one-note invective.

“As a writer Wells feels he needs a range of emotion: ‘I also do personal confession or I can be really enthusiastic about something. But the comments tend to be one color, and that becomes drab. It’s tougher, I guess, to be enthusiastic, to really set out honestly why something means something to you. It takes maybe twice as long. I can run with disdain and nastiness for a while but you don’t want to always be the guy banging a shoe on the table. Like LexG. I mean it’s not healthy, for a start…'”

Supplemental Thoughts: (1) I’m not the only person on HE to use my own name — many journalists who comment (including Glenn Kenny, Joe Leydon and Lewis Beale) use their names so I shouldn’t have spoken so quickly. (2) LexG has positive currents in him, and genuine enthusiasm for this and that from time to time, so I didn’t mean to characterize him solely as “banging a shoe on the table” kind of guy.

Both Variety‘s Peter Debruge and The Hollywood Reporter‘s Kirk Honeycutt seem to agree that Jon Favreau‘s Cowboys & Aliens (Universal, 7.29), which screened last night at ComicCon, has wisely emphasized classic-old-west aspects and solid character-driven writing over flash-in-the-pan alien FX, and is therefore no Wild Wild West.

Snap of crowd at last night’s screening taken by Cowboys & Aliens producer Ron Howard.

This doesn’t entirely square with a view by TheWrap‘s Tim Kenneally that Cowboys & Aliens is “an action flick from head to tentacle” — a “Gunfight at the O.K. Corral meets Independence Day” that “will not be lauded for its emotional complexity” and is “not entirely out of this world.”

Deadline‘s Luke Y. Thompson didn’t run a review, but he’s reported that it’s a spottily flawed, somewhat superficial film, but that the fans loved it, particularly the violent scenes, and double-particularly those between Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig.

Debruge calls it “a ripping good ride” and “a full-bodied, roundly satisfying yarn, positioning [the film] to join the half-dozen Westerns to crack the $100 million club.”

Honeycutt calls Cowboys & Aliens “a solid success. For a tent-pole, Comic-Con movie, this one devotes a gratifying amount of time to character and achieves most of its success because Favreau has intelligently cast his film and let his actors do their thing…as good as the visual effects are, you walk away from the movie with a memory of actors’ faces, lines of dialogue and actions that speak more to character than to shock-and-awe.”

HE’s Michael Merlob couldn’t get into the screening, but says he’s “heard mostly good things. Some folks are saying it has plot holes but is well-executed overall. Reactions seem generally positive.”

Yesterday evening I briefly visited an open-air MOCA reception at West Hollywood’s Pacific Design Center for Miranda July, director of The Future (Razor/Match, 7.29). and particularly her outdoor sculpture exhibit, “Eleven Heavy Things.” (Now through 10.23.) That’s July posing within one of her front-lawn sculptures with that grinning middle-aged guy with the glasses.

I spoke to Beginners director Mike Mills, July’s husband, whom I’d met at a recent Santa Barbara reception, but not to July, whose upcoming film I still haven’t seen, in part due to my own instinctual, possibly unjustified fear of what The Future may bring, and partly due to a recent lack of screening invites from Marina Bailey.

For me, the unnaturally sculpted hill-and-dale lawn in front of the PDC is one of the most serene atmospheres you can find in Los Angeles. July’s six or seven “Heavy” sculptures ahave been placed — embedded — on this lawn. The grass smells wonderful.

I’ve never gotten over vague feelings of shame that arose from a minor incident that happened in a McGraw-Hill building bathroom in 1981. Maybe if I finally admit what happened I can get past it somehow.

I’d been hired to work as a freelance writer for a new outfit called Product Information Network (P.I.N.) by a very kind and extremely bright guy named George Finnegan , a friend of my father’s who lived near our home in Wilton, Connecticut. It saved my life, this job, as I was skirting on the edge of poverty when Finnegan brought me on. I was so grateful to be able to report to work on the 19th floor and snag a weekly paycheck and eat lunch every day, etc.

Cut to a moment in the late afternoon when I hit the bathroom. I did my business, washed my hands, combed my hair and hit the light switch as I left. Pure instinct — I always kill the lights when I leave any bathroom. A split second later I heard Finnegan’s deep voice say, “Hey.” He’d been in one of the stalls and I hadn’t noticed, and now he was immersed in total blackness, as there were no windows. I turned around to flip them back on when I heard him bark a second time, only much more sharply and loudly: “Hey!”

The anger in his voice scared me and I panicked. I was suddenly terrified that he’d know it was me, and all I wanted to do was get out of there in case he was about to leap out of the stall and turn the lights on himself. He might get really angry, I feared, and possibly fire me or something…who knew? I only knew I didn’t want to be busted. So I bolted out of there and left him in the dark. It makes no sense, I know, but that’s what I did.

As I was hurrying back to my office I heard Finnegan say “HEY!” one last time and then, “God damn it!”

I was terrified for the rest of the afternoon, thinking he might have suspected it was me and would call me into his office and grill me, etc. But nothing happened. I’ve told myself since that everyone panics and it’s not a major crime. Also that if Finnegan hadn’t sounded so angry as he blurted out that second “Hey!” I would have turned the lights back on. I can say that with confidence. But he scared me so I ran.

If he’d only been a little calmer about it. It was all my fault, of course, but if Finnegan had said in a mild, light-hearted tone of voice, “Uhh, hello there…? Lights?” That wouldn’t have caused me to panic, I’m fairly sure. So in a way it sorta kinda was Finnegan’s fault.

I’m kidding, I’m kidding.

HE’s Michael Merlob has filed the following from ComicCon about Francis Coppola‘s Twixt preview-and-discussion panel: “Coppola descended on Comic Con in what was the most enjoyably disastrous panel in recent memory. There with composer/musician Dan Deacon and star Val Kilmer, Coppola made for a lovably fuddy-duddy host as he introduced the first-ever promo footage from his new gothic horror film Twixt.

“The Twixt footage suggests an unhinged student film. With Kilmer playing a low rent horror author who becomes embroiled in a small town mystery while on a signing tour, the footage felt underwhelming. We all know what Coppola’s been up to the last few years, stuck in his own little world, and his recent output, regardless of how personal it may be to him, has left many frustrated. Twixt looks to be no different in spite of its genre trappings.

“Coppola explained that the film came from a dream he had about Edgar Allen Poe, and indeed Poe himself makes an appearance (in a much more physically accurate form than what John Cusack appears as in the upcoming The Raven). Elle Fanning costars.

“Kilmer looks delightfully deranged in the footage that was shown, and it’s possible that Twixt could become a sort of cult disaster, a whacked-out ode to the very artistic excesses of its lead and creator. Indeed, it feels as though Coppola himself has become Colonel Kurtz — bulky, charismatic if not magnetic, enveloped in his own fantasies and creative morass.

“Interestingly, Coppola also announced his intention to take Twixt on the road, four-

wall style, and literally play alternate versions of the film to audiences, featuring Deacon’s live music. Following this announcement, Coppola showed the crowd a re-mixed version of the promo reel that he drew up on the fly using an iPad, with Deacon providing live music to accompany it, at one point spinning an almost hip-hop beat into the mix set to Coppola’s voice uttering the word “Nosferatu” repeatedly — bizarre and hilarious.

“Unfortunately, given the mediocre quality of the footage and Coppola and Deacon’s comical fumbling with the computers onstage, the whole thing came off as merely odd rather than engaging.

“The audience however, in spite of the technical mishaps, remained enthused and engaged simply by virtue of Coppola’s presence. He made for a wonderful host, and his passions thankfully remain intact and unchecked. While there’s a stroke of artistic brilliance in Coppola’s technical ambitions for Twixt, it doesn’t appear that the content itself is worthy of the pursuit. Hopefully the iffy quality of the presentation isn’t indicative of the film as a whole, but for now Twixt appears to be Coppola’s latest domed fever dream, leaving him but no one else inside the hothouse bubble of his mind.”

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Borys Kit is reporting that Harrison Ford has attached himself to Black Hats, a 1920s-era action film in which he would play an aging Wyatt Earp pooling forces with Bat Masterson against a young Al Capone and his New York henchmen.

(l.) Harrison Ford; (r.) Wyatt Earp near the end of his life in the 1920s.

Pic would be an adaptation of a Max Allan Collins novel with a screenplay by Kurt Johnstad (cowriter of 300 and 300: The Battle of Artemisia).

Kit’s synopsis, condensed: “An older Earp, spending his last years as a private detective and movie consultant in Los Angeles, learns that his friend and compatriot Doc Holliday had a son, now living in Prohibition-era New York City. While Holliday is long dead, the son has gotten himself in trouble with a rising mobster, Al Capone. Earp teams up with Bat Masterson, one of his former deputies and now noted sportswriter for the New York Morning Telegraph, to take on the gang in what becomes a tale of six-shooters versus tommy guns.”

Perfect! This could be great for Ford. It could be his last really iconic stand-up role. You can feel the potential in the premise.

The problem is Johnstad. You need a serious older-guy, soul-man writer — someone on Steve Zallian‘s or Tony Gilroy‘s or Robert Towne‘s level — to give this film the right kind of old-school polish and gravity. In my eyes Johnstad is an ex-electrician android screenwriter — a by-the-numbers guy. He wrote Act of Valor, the rah-rah Navy Seals rightwing movie. Anyone who can serve Zack Snyder is suspect, in my my book.

Boxoffice.com‘s Phil Contrino is projecting that Nicholas Winding Refn‘s Drive (FilmDistrict, 9.16) will open with $13 million and top out domestically at $42 million. Or, in other words, final earnings may be about about half of the $86 million that Fast Five took in its first weekend. They’re both fast-car movies, and that’s where they separate.

Drive will open in far fewer theatres, yes, and Fast Five is the latest version of a longstanding franchise brand that everyone likes or cheaply enjoys, etc. Of course, Fast Five isn’t one-third the film that Drive is. Fast Five is synthetic, revved-up cheez-whiz and Drive is a genuine, perfectly grilled Porterhouse steak with vegetables and sauteed potatoes and a nice glass of wine. And 80% American filmgoers prefer the cheez-whiz. Naturally.

A couple of hours ago a friend described Drive as “kind of an art film.” I choked when I heard this. “But Drive is more or less in the realm of Bullitt,” I said. “It’s different in this and that way but it could have been made by Peter Yates in the late ’60s or ’70s, or by Michael Mann in the early to mid ’80s. That makes it an art film?

“Would Bullitt be considered an ‘art film’ if it had never come out in ’67 and was released today? In 1967 Bullitt was regarded as a total popcorn cop thriller. But by today’s standards it’s seen as a bit somber and austere, my friend was saying. Not video-gamey enough. Terrific. What a degraded movie culture we’re living in today.”

Director Phillip Noyce (Salt, Rabbit-Proof Fence) saw Drive when it played at the LA Film Festival, and has this to say: “Drive‘s artful quirky touches and non-conveyor-belt sensibility certainly set it apart from most studio movies, but it’s a rousing entertainment that simply defies categorizing.”

To go by a description provided by TheWrap‘s Tim Molloy, It would appear that yesterday’s unfortunate ComicCon altercation between Rhys Ifans (Amazing Spider-Man, Greenberg) and security people was Ifans’ fault all the way. He reportedly acted boorishly and belligerently, and that’s no way to be in mixed company.

That said, some security people walk around with a stick-up-their-ass attitude (which I’ve personally witnessed time and again) and some are just too stupid to realize that you don’t fuck with movie actors or people in their entourage. Especially if they’ve had a few.

“It’s not worth it, Mr. Gittes,” Chinatown‘s Noah Cross once said. “It’s reaaaally not worth it.”