This is not a “review,” okay? Definitely not a review. Call it an enthusiasm spasm. The point is that Roger Michell‘s Morning Glory (Paramount, 11.12) is much better than what Paramount’s marketing has so far indicated, and a tiny bit better than what that Showeast guy told TheWrap‘s Steve Pond a week or so ago.

The exhibitor said “it’s close to James L. Brooks territory, or to the border between Brooks and Nancy Meyers” and “a solid entertainment that in November will appeal to the over-30 audience in a way that nothing else will.” Total agreement with the second statement, but forget the Nancy Meyers analogy. This film is close to Broadcast News-level Brooks + grade A, totally-on-his-game Michell + Harrison Ford‘s best performance in years + Rachel McAdams giving an ever better performance than she did in The Wedding Crashers (and that’s saying something).

Ford’s performance as a grumpy, past-his-prime, Dan Rather-ish newsman has a shot at a Best Supporting Actor recognition. Or not. He’s surly but smirking all the while. The role as written isn’t quite home-run-level, but it’s fair to call it a solid triple, I think.

That’s all I have time to say before the next movie starts, but I just had to counteract the impression I gave when I posted this 10.19 story, which was mainly a reaction piece to the one-sheet. No offense but the one-sheet “lies,” in a sense. Morning Glory is much smarter, more more realistic, and much more adult in a spritzy and reasonably real-world sense than you might expect.

I was afraid of screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna in the wake of 27 Dresses, but what a surprise! In the realm of commercial confections about big-city, fast-lane ambition, Morning Glory is a notch or two above McKenna’s The Devil Wears Prada. It’s somewhat similar in terms of the choice that the main character faces between an exciting career and a strong personal relationship, but it resolves this situation more satisfyingly, I feel, and Patrick Wilson plays a much cooler and more interesting boyfriend that Adrian Grenier played in Prada.

Everything has changed, Jon Stewart Rally in D.C.-wise. I’m busing down on late Friday afternoon, staying in a rented room near Dupont Circle, attending the rally with purchased VIP tickets (the Comedy Central p.r. person, Renata Luczak, totally blew me off because I applied too late for press credentials), covering the rally, and staying on Saturday night and running around and whatnot. I’m open to schmooze and libations (i.e., the Tabard Inn on Friday evening?) with any HE readers who’ll be in the vicinity.

For me, President Obama‘s visit last night with Jon Stewart wasn’t all that satisfying because of Stewart’s tendency to flick questions in a roundabout way rather than put them straight. I would have loved it if he’d said, “Have you seen Inside Job, Mr. President? The same bad guys who authored and endorsed our ridiculous derivative-scheme predicament in the Clinton and Bush years are part of your team right now. What about that?”

Also: “What did you think of The Social Network? More to the point, what did you think of the Larry Summers scene in that film? Is that the guy you know to any degree? Did he seem a bit familiar, or was Aaron Sorkin just flying off and having fun in his own realm?”

I have a 10:30 am screening and then a 2 pm screening, and not much time to post or reflect between the two. The way it is. Back sometime in the late afternoon.

Every time I hear this Al Pacino locker-room speech, I feel the current all over again. It’s one of the best passages Oliver Stone ever put to pen, and may well be the most inspirational levitation moment ever delivered in a film. Because the sports context ain’t the half of it.

“We’re in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And we can stay here and get the shit kicked out of us. Or we can fight out way back, into the light. We can climb out of hell. One inch at a time. That’s what football is. That’s what life is. The margin of error is so small, it’s inches…and the inches we need are everywhere around us. On this team we fight for that inch. Because we know that when we add up all those inches, that’s going to make the fucking difference between winning and losing. Between living and dying. In any fight, it’s the guy who’s willing to die who’s going to win that inch.”

Movable Type comment problem: There’s some kind of weirdness going on with Movable Type that’s been preventing HE readers from logging in to comment. We’re on it. Installing latest Movable Type version (5.031). The situation will hopefully be fixed soon. Well, by this evening.

It’s bad stuff and it doesn’t add up, but Lisa Blount, the Oscar-winning Arkansas native and actress best known as Debra Winger‘s best friend in An Officer and a Gentleman (’83), is dead. Blount’s mother reportedly found the 53 year-old actress-producer in her Little Rock home on Wednesday. The cause of death is a mystery.

On the 2002 Academy Awards telecast The Accountant, a short co-directed by Blount and husband Ray McKinnon, won an Oscar for Best Short Film, Live Action.

Blount and McKinnon met during the making of Needful Things (’93). They married in 1998. McKinnon appeared on HBO’s Deadwood and most recently as a high school football coach in The Blind Side.

Seven or eight years ago Blount and McKinnon moved from Los Angeles to Arkansas, reportedly “to make great Southern movies.” They collaborated on 2004’s Chrystal, in which Blount starred with McKinnon and Billy Bob Thornton.

Earlier today Rope of Silicon‘s Brad Brevet asked the usual columnists whether Another Year star Lesley Manville — a glorious actress giving a very sad, world-class performance — should be pushed for Best Actress or Best Supporting Actress. Here’s the piece. Eight people chimed in. What I wrote is pasted after the page photo:

“You said, Brad, that you just got off the phone with Sony Classics co-honcho Michael Barker and that he said ‘at the moment they are going with lead based primarily on the reasoning Manville is supposedly in the movie more than anyone else.’ Well, none of that means diddly-squat.

“What matters isn’t screen time or whether or not Manville does play the lead female role in Mike Leigh‘s Another Year. What matters is what you can get away with in order to win an Oscar that will propel the film’s box-office and ancillary sales. That’s it, the whole game, end of story. And Sony Classics can EASILY get away with calling Manville a Best Supporting Actress in that film. EASILY. PIECE OF CAKE.

“And if they do this, the odds of their getting a win out of it will be very…okay, relatively high. That’s the whole thing, the whole game.

“Ms. Manville, with whom I’ve spoken, very much wants to win as it will do good things for her career-wise. Barker knows what the Best Actress competition is likely to be, and it’s no duck walk this year. No disrespect to Ms. Manville — she’s very, VERY GOOD in Another Year — but she’ll be facing some very tough opponents, and the odds of her winning will not be high — let’s face it. If Sony Classics wants her to win an Oscar, there’s really only one thing to do.”

Lena Dunham‘s Tiny Furniture (IFC Films, 11.12) is an earnest, well-sculpted portrait of urban misery by way of self-portraiture. (Or vice versa.) Dunham, who directs, writes and stars, plays a forlorn version of herself — an overweight 20something named Aura who lives in her mom’s Tribeca loft, aspires to filmmaking but has no income and is dealing with lazy and/or indifferent attentions from a couple of guys she’s half-interested in.

Dunham’s actual mom plays her mom, her actual sister plays her sister, and her mom’s actual loft is the main setting. And there are actual actors (like Lovers of Hate‘s Alex Karpovsky) in supporting roles. And every step of the way the pacing is steady and leisurely and unforced. That’s a polite way of saying not a lot happens, and the film takes its time about it.

Tiny Furniture is realistic and character-rich and low-key “cool” as far as it goes. It’s got an honestly dreary vibe. It reminded me of what spectacular misery being young and unsuccessful and not-quite-formed can be, and how humiliating it can be to have no money, or to have so little that getting a nothing job as a hostess for $11 an hour seems like a step up.

I mean, $11 friggin’ dollars an hour from a part-time job of 25 or 30 hours a week? That’s enough money for delicatessen sandwiches and toothpaste and well drinks and a monthly subway card and various other things everyone needs but which don’t add up to very much. That’s just maintaining-but-going-nowhere-and-fuck-me money.

I was thinking at the halfway mark that Tiny Furniture is what Susan Siedelman‘s Smithereens might have been if Susan Berman‘s “Wren” character wasn’t so angry and scattered, and if she had a rich Manhattan mom.

Dunham is a fine, real-deal actress. I liked her right away, and I believed her acting to the extent that it didn’t feel like “acting.” It was just being and behavior. She has my idea of sad, caring eyes and a quick mind and a likably unassertive, quasi-hangdog manner.

During a post-screening q&a at Goldcrest: (l.) Anne Carey, (r.) Tiny Furniture director-screenwirter-actress Lena Dunham

Dunham, Tiny Furniture producer Kyle Martin.

The undercurrent felt a little bit lezzy at times, but not in a pronounced way. The two guys are “nice” and interesting to talk to, but they’re both kind of into themselves and really not much of a catch. (The second guy she hangs with, a chef, is actually a bit of a dick.) And there’s this nice-looking girl with a great smile who’s obviously interested in Dunham in a romantic way who appears in a couple of scenes.

I’m just wondering why the obvious fact that Dunham’s character is bulky never seems to come up except in one scene when her best friend reads negative YouTube commentary about her shape. Is it somehow uncool to talk about this? It wouldn’t have been 20 or 30 years ago when largeness was relatively rare. Now it’s fairly common among GenY types and no one raises an eyebrow. (Dunham, whom I spoke to last night after the screening, seems to have slimmed down somewhat since filming.) But the basic social rules still apply. People with weight issues generally don’t get laid as often, and their choices aren’t as vast as those of slimmer folk. You can shilly-shally around this all you want, but being heavy is not going to make your life any easier or happier. It’s definitely a compromiser.

Tiny Furniture is a smart little low-energy thing. It has integrity, but it really could be titled A Life in Hell, I feel. I was sitting there going “this is awful, what a life, Jesus H. Christ” but at the same time I was saying “I believe this”, “this hasn’t been faked” and “Dunham knows what she’s doing.”

The opening of The Spy Who Loved Me was arguably the apogee of the Roger Moore 007 films. I remember watching this with a girlfriend in ’77 and saying, “Okay, I get it…this is going to be good.” It encapsulated the fresh idea that Bond films could and should be exercises in self-parody, and perhaps even out-and-out comedies with action sequences that deliberately challenged the laws of elemental physics (a new concept back then).

It’s the movie that said (a) “we’re throwing out any allusions whatsover to the serious-stud Bond playbook and going for a much more playful tone” and (b) “you’ll never see a Bond film as rugged and muscular as From Russia With Love ever again…get used to it. We’re in the mid ’70s now and nobody will buy a straight-with-no-chaser 007, so we’re having fun.”

Nothing said this as much as Richard Kiel‘s dopey Jaws character, who could have been a regular on the Jack Benny Show. Kiel’s giant lug could have fit right into Abbott and Costello Meet The Mummy. And he anticipated the cool-monster attitude of Arnold Schwarzenegger‘s Terminator character in the ’84 original.

The movie, directed by the comedically inclined Lewis Gilbert, delivered all this but the opening — the idiotic ski chase followed by the main title with Carly Simon singing the title song — was a kind of overture or preamble that conveyed the new approach. It said “Okay, fans, here we go…new game!” And it had the most self-aware, self-amused and cocksure vibe since the hard-swagger days of the first three films — Dr. No, From Russia With Love and Goldfinger.

For me it was a long slow downhill trek after this. The Pierce Brosnan 007 films never quite figured a way to re-think the franchise as radically as The Spy Who Loved Me.

The song is cut off at the tail end of the above video. Here’s a version to plays it to the end. I love the chord changes when Simon sings “is keepin’ all my secrets safe tonight.”

Joe and Jane Popcorn don’t listen to film critics because they regard them as elitist, secular big-city monks who don’t speak to Joe and Jane where they live. I would dispute that notion when it comes to populist, “standing in the parking lot of a 7/11” columnists like myself, but Joe and Jane may have a point. And it occured to me last night that the ultimate poster boy for elitist, secular big-city film critic culture has to be New Yorker critic Richard Brody.

I get what Brody’s more or less about and enjoy his peculiar passions. I love it when he writes about the exquisite influential stylings of Wes Anderson, and describes Ishtar as “one of the most original, audacious and inventive comedies of modern times,” and calls Carlos “the most potent neoconservative film yet to reach screens.” This is great passion, great eccentricity. But if Joe and Jane Popcorn were to took a look at Brody with his big wacko John Brown beard and read some of his opinions (which of course they wouldn’t), they’d go “who the hell is this guy?”

Brody obviously needs to keep on being Brody, but there’s no working critic, I would argue, who so fully conveys the idea of being a “visitor to a small planet.” No one in the field seems more indifferent to ground-level creeds, commonalities, beliefs and concepts of reality than ones that he alone has imagined and constructed for his own satisfaction. Brody’s appearance and words scream “I am so not a person who gets or cares about what even semi-average people are looking for they buy a movie ticket. I am a movie-nerd insect of the highest and most discriminating order, and immensely proud of this.”

You know a dog is pretty damn dumb if it feels the need to protect its territory by barking at a jet plane flying 15,000 feet overhead. I once knew a collie in Connecticut named Trelawny who did that. We’d be sitting around the pool and Trelawny would suddenly sit up when he heard the faint whine of the jet engines, and then he’d stand up and start barking as the jet flew closer and closer.