Earlier today Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone and I recorded Oscar Poker #39 — possibly the most meandering, lost-in-space, under-energized podcast in our joint history. We didn’t discuss Transformers 3 but we did discuss, for far, far too long, the shortcomings of Larry Crowne. “How boring is the edited podcast?,” I asked Sasha before hearing it. “Not too bad,” she answered. Here’s a non-iTunes, stand-alone link.

According to L.A. Weekly writer Siran Babayan, a recently-published book by Hollywood screenwriters Robert Ben Garant and Thomas Lennon (“Writing Movies for Fun and Profit: How We Made a Billion Dollars at the Box Office and You Can, Too!“) summarizes meetings the pair had with Billy Crystal and Sandra Bernhard “with just one word: dick.”

“Well, at least somebody has the guts to let it be known what a selfish dick and insincere courtesan Billy Crystal is,” a screenwriter friend wrote this morning.

“Perhaps so,” I replied, “but I know three things: (a) Many if not most comedians are possessed by dark moods and inclinations of one kind or another — they’re no day at the beach; (b) I myself felt a certain morose moodiness and frostiness when I spoke to Crystal at Sundance a few years ago, although it didn’t bother me; and yet (c) I love that Crystal reportedly has an exact replica of an airplane bathroom (complete with blue water in the toilet) in his home.”

Garant and Lennon will read from and sign their book at Book Soup, 8818 Sunset Blvd., W. Hlywd. on Tuesday, 7.5, at 7 p.m.

The fact that I’m reduced to posting ping-pong photos (taken late yesterday afternoon in West Hollywood) tells you how dead it is out there. Topics for Oscar Poker #39: (a) the death of Larry Crowne; (b) What summer films (if any) are we looking forward to?; (c) the coming of Horrible Bosses and (d) Movie titles I cannot and will not abide, no matter how good the film may be: Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of a Tribe Called Quest.

Early this morning one of Fox News’ twitter accounts (i.e., foxnewspolitics) was hacked, and the sad death of President Obama was announced. The messages were removed around 9 am this morning Pacific. FoxNews.com first posted a brief statement saying that the reports were incorrect, and that it regretted “any distress the false tweets may have created.”

Most good lefties are “beyond borders” in their thinking. They’re citizens of the civilized world who instinctively recoil when they hear the phrase “We’re number one!” (an ESPN barroom American-ism if there ever was one), and who relate as much to Italians and Welsh-people and Argentinians and Qaddafi-hating Libyans and Lithuanians as they would to Middle Americans of any region. They’re not into “American exceptionalism” or anything that smacks of xenophobia of Palinism or Gov. Rick Perry or Arizonian thinking or DuluozGray-ism.

I love American culture in many respects and am very happy I live here as a citizen, but I haven’t felt “patriotic” in ages…please. Okay, I felt a twinge when Bin Laden took a bullet in the face and I felt as shattered as everyone else on 9/11. But I also knew on that day that we’d been anything but innocent lambs, foreign-policy-wise, and that our karma had basically turned around and bitten us in the ass. We’ve been the marauding Romans of our time since the 1950s, and we’re hated worldwide for that. (As well as, okay, envied in a weird sense.) So the idea of compiling a list of “patriotic films” seems kind of odd, but Bilge Ebiri‘s choices are…well, thoughtful. I mean, I’ve never thought of Manhattan as a patriotic film.

I feel proud of the achievements of the great American artists, writers, thinkers and doers. That’s my kind of patriotism. I feel immensely proud that I come from the same country as Mark Twain and Hoyt Wilhelm and Allen Ginsberg and Woody Allen and Walt Whitman and Frank Sinatra. But we’re not the country of George M. Cohan or FDR or George S. Patton or Audie Murphy or Woody Guthrie or Chief Sitting Bull any more. We’ve been taken over by corporations. There’s only the international dominion of dollars. We’re on the way down and everyone knows it, and it’s mainly because of the corporate-fellating right and the Rick Perrys and Sarah Palins and the Tea Party morons who cherish their inalienable right to burn fossil fuels and eat super-fatty foods and own 60″ LED flat-screens more than anything else.

So you can have the Uncle Sam, red-white-and-blue stuff with tanks and soldiers marching down Main Street. In my mind that’s pageant-code for “we’re beyond arrogant and we love it!”

You think Naom Chomsky gets all misty-eyed on the 4th of July?

A bit of the apparent Island-copycat backstory:

How do you go from being a tough, provocative director of respected envelope-pushing dramas to a seemingly flailing director of wildly miscalculated embarassments? That’s what Otto Preminger managed to do between the mid ’60s and mid ’70s. Many great directors lost their touch or their edge when they got older (Elia Kazan, Francis Coppola, John Frankenheimer, Billy Wilder, Alfred Hitchcock, Elia Kazan, John Schlesinger), but only the once-great Preminger appeared to literally lose his mind, or certainly his judgment.

Otto Preminger sometime during the mid ’50s.

I’m reminded of this by the recent DVD release of Such Good Friends (’71) and the forthcoming DVD of Skidoo (’68) — two of the worst films ever made by a “name” director during Hollywood’s counter-culture flirtation. Not to mention the painfully campy Hurry Sundown (’67), the altogether dismal Tell Me You Love Me, Junie Moon (’70) and the catastrophic Rosebud (’75), which has never had a domestic DVD release.

Okay, Preminger redeemed himself somewhat (or at least slightly) with his final film, The Human Factor (’79), but the ’67-to-’75 damage has been so deep and wounding that it almost didn’t matter. What other director has lost it this badly during the final laps?

Early in his career Preminger hit the motherlode with a classic noir, Laura (’44), and then went into quasi-slumber mode for six or seven years before finding his legendary early ’50s-to-mid ’60s groove — Angel Face (’52), The Moon Is Blue (’53), Carmen Jones (’54), The Man with the Golden Arm (’56), Saint Joan (’57), Bonjour Tristesse (’58), Porgy and Bess (1959), Anatomy of a Murder (’59 — probably his peak), Exodus (1960 — starting to slip), Advise and Consent (’62), The Cardinal (’63) and In Harm’s Way (’65 — his last semi-decent film before the fall).

I was stirred and intrigued and frequently taken away by portions of Terrence Malick‘s The Tree of Life when I saw it in Cannes. So when friends told me they planned to see it last night it suddenly seemed like a good idea to join them. But now, 12 hours after the lights came up in Arclight #5, I’m not so sure.

Jessica Chastain in The Tree of Life

Life is still a gentle, layered, highly undisciplined cosmic church-service movie — a quiet spiritual environment to dream inside of and meditate by. But (and I’m sorry to say this in a way) it doesn’t gain with a second viewing. And all very good or great movies tend to do this. So what’s wrong?

I was made fun of on 5.22 by New York‘s “Approval Matrix” guy for tweeting from Cannes that I was glad I’d seen The Tree of Life but I’m “not sure if I’ll buy/get the Bluray.” Now that I’ve seen it twice I know I won’t bring the Bluray home. In other words I immediately sensed it wasn’t a two-timer in Cannes and now the proof is in the pudding, so I would say my premonitions have merit.

For me, The Tree of Life is an amazing film in the sense that it gathers and swirls it all together in the same way that I myself swirl it all together ever day, soaking in my blender shake of childhood memories, present-day ennui, seaside dreams, forest-primeval dreams and dinosaur dreams, catch-as-catch-can impressions and endless variations and meditations about loss and lament and the absence of grace, etc. That plus “fuck me because it sure could have been a happier life if it hadn’t been for my gruff, largely unaffectionate, World War II-generation dad who brought darkness and snippiness too many times to the dinner table,” etc.

I’m always disengaging from the present and wandering around in the past and thinking about dinosaurs and Dean Martin and Steve McQueen and Lee Marvin and cap guns and girls in bikinis on beaches and how my mother looked and sounded when she was young, and how I used to argue with myself about who was worse, she or my father. All I know is that except for movie-watching and running around with friends, my childhood was a Soviet prison-camp experience — a spiritual gulag. My parents and the public schools I attended may have made me into a tougher, more resourceful survivor than if they’d been “nicer” and easier on me, but God, what a price.

I’m presuming it’s not just me who takes this head-trip all the time, but each and every person on the planet. Malick is merely taking a grab-bag of his own lamentings and assembling them into a film. That — don’t get me wrong — is a very welcome thing. I’m immensely grateful that a film as nourishing and open-pored as The Tree of Life is playing in the same plex alongside Transformers 3 (a film that gives you no room whatsoever to trip out).

But I’m not convinced that what Malick has done is all that staggering or transcendent or worth the kind of in-depth explanation piece that Salon‘s Matt Zoller Seitz has written, which reminds me of the sermons that Episcopalian ministers used to deliver when they tried to explain what God and Jesus could or should mean to the average parishioner (i.e., myself). I used to quietly groan to myself during these sermons, and then I took LSD when I was 19 and I finally did see God and Jesus, and I realized what tepid and cautious fellows those ministers were.

I’m basically saying that my second Life experience was the same exquisitely captured, three-card-monte salad toss. The dreams and ennui of Mr. Malick when he first hatched the idea back in the ’70s (when it was called Q) + the joy and wonder of Emmanuel Lubezki‘s cinematography + Malick’s “I’ll figure it out during editing” strategy. Many an ambitious and/or captivating film could be described as being “less about itself than what you the viewer would make of it,” but The Tree of Life is especially that kind of film. You’re on your own, baby.

My first Cannes tweet still says it all: “Terrence Malick made The Tree of Life in this free-flowing, free-associative way because he could, because he doesn’t have Bert and Harold Schneider riding his ass in post, and because God told him to…like it or lump it.”

The other problem was last night’s Arclight showing was projected with insufficient light and with a slightly hazy focus. Malick asked projectionists for 14 foot lamberts of light when showing his film. I knew right away I was looking at something like 10 or 11 foot lamberts…somewhere in that vicinity. Not terrible but not enough. Some if not much of the subtleties in Lubezki’s visual scheme are simply not manifested when the brightness levels aren’t full-on. And I was really pissed off during the closing credits when it was obvious that the focus had never been there all along. The Arclight is supposed to be a top-quality experience, but it wasn’t good enough last night in theatre #5.

Eight days ago Jezebel posted Kathy Griffin‘s very well-told story about running into Michelle Bachmann. Griffin’s money question was, “Were you born a bigot or did you grow into it?” Bachmann’s reply: “That’s a good question. I’m gonna have to get back to you on that one!”

Please, God — let Ms. Bachmann become the 2012 Republican nominee for president. Chris Matthews said a couple of weeks ago on Real Time with Bill Maher that he believes she’s going to beat Mitt Romney in New Hampshire because she stands for something and really speaks her mind (however dubious her mental determinations may be) and is not a phony. Please give us Bachmann…seriously. Talk about a gift from Heaven.

Last night I paid to see A Better Life — paid! — for the second time. (My first viewing was at the Santa Monica Aero on June 7th.) It was playing at Arclight #11, and after the show — totally sold out, by the way — director Chris Weitz and star Demian Bichir dropped by for a q & a. And then they were swamped in the lobby outside for photos and chit-chat.

Damian Bichir in Chris Weitz’s A Better Life.

A second viewing doesn’t diminish A Better Life in the least. If anything it seemed to play a bit cleaner and stronger. I wrote on 6.8 that “it’s genuinely moving, if a little too grim and deflating at times.” Well, the grimness and deflation were gone last night and replaced by a kind of dignity and austerity and emotional truthfulness that’s really quite rare in mainstream movies today. I realized this during my first viewing, but perhaps not fully enough.

“I fell in love with [the script] the first time I read it,” Bichir tells Vanity Fair‘s Sasha Bronner. “It was so powerful and so well written. No gimmicks, no Hollywood tricks. It was the real thing. And then the character was one of those characters that you’re looking for in your life. That’s a Hamlet, that’s a King Lear, that’s one of those bigger-than-life characters, that’s Travis in Taxi Driver. It’s many, many characters in one.”

What a nothing Friday…I’m sorry, Saturday this is. Nothing happening anywhere and hot out to boot. I might as well just go to the club and do some laundry and then take a nap. Shine it. Jett flew out Thursday night for a visit but he decided to go to Las Vegas today with a platonic girlfriend so it’s just me and the cats and my Blurays. That and a plan to visit with friends and go to The Tree of Life again. And then a scooter ride for an hour or so.

50 years ago Ernest Hemingway killed himself with a shotgun. A.E Hotchner has recalled the novelist’s final days in a 7.1 N.Y. Times article:

“What does a man care about?,” Hemingway asked Hotcher. “Staying healthy. Working good. Eating and drinking with his friends. Enjoying himself in bed. I haven’t any of them. You understand, goddamn it? None of them.”

Hotcher visited Hemingway visited him in June 1961. The novelist had been succumbing to what seemed to be paranoia and had been talking about suicide (and had attempted it once or twice) and had been undergoing shock treatments. Hotchner asked him, “Papa, why do you want to kill yourself?”

“What do you think happens to a man going on 62 when he realizes that he can never write the books and stories he promised himself?,” Hemingway replied. “Or do any of the other things he promised himself in the good days?”

“How can you say that?,” Hotchner replied. “You have written a beautiful book about Paris, as beautiful as anyone can hope to write.” He meant A Movable Feast.

“The best of that I wrote before. And now I can’t finish it.”

Hotcher told him to relax or even retire.

“Retire?” Hemingway said. “Unlike your baseball player and your prizefighter and your matador, how does a writer retire? No one accepts that his legs are shot or the whiplash gone from his reflexes. Everywhere he goes, he hears the same damn question: what are you working on?”

The truth? If you’re a writer who’s 62 or 52 or 32 or 42 and you feel you’re really and truly past it? Unable to write well or feel or give pleasure or just live in a way that feels honest and robust and complete? I don’t know. It’s a tough one to answer. I do know if you’ve written well before you can write well again. I’m better at it now than I was five years ago, and certainly ten or twenty years before that. How could Hemingway have unlearned what he knew so well, and did so well in his prime? Maybe it was the booze. It often is. Alcohol and other substances certainly did in Hunter S. Thompson, who went out the same way.

The wondrous and eternal thing about writing is that you never stop getting closer to the best you can do. The process never ends. The light is always just up ahead.