There are many people out there whose absence would greatly improve world conditions. Dick Cheney, Michele Bachman, Glenn Beck…that line of country. In the old days people used to suggest that such people could “go jump in a lake” or “take three running jumps and go to hell.” These days people tend to be a little more inventive in their phrasings, like “may they get rectal cancer.” And so what?

Sean Penn will get no static or condemnation from this corner for that blunt remark. Paparazzi anger issues aside, he’s a man of honor, conviction and integrity. I’m being dead straight.

Alexandre Philippe‘s The People vs. George Lucas, which in my dreams would (and actually could) be the most emotionally satisfying hit-job documentary of 2010, had its world premiere last night at South by Southwest, and at 6:30 pm yet. And now it’s just after 1 pm New York time the next day and no one has any reviews up. Not Anne Thompson, not Devin Faraci, not Moises Chiullan, not Eric Kohn, not Joe Leydon…no one.

Has anyone even posted a Twitter reaction? Update: Here’s a Hollywood Reporter review by John DeFore.

In this day and age of lightning covering a festival is about lickety-split filing, lickety-split filing and more lickety-split filing. When I see a hot or high-interest movie in Cannes, Toronto or Sundance I’ll post something on that sucker (at least a mini-review) within three or four hours, if not sooner. If I were there you can bet your ass I would have had some kind of People vs. George Lucas reaction up by 10 or 11 pm last night, or certainly by early this morning. All I can say is that I’m very disappointed all around, guys. From here on the T-shirt slogan for SXSW journalists needs to be “fewer Margaritas, faster filing!”

Further update: a mezzo-mezzo review from The Reviewer.net.

I’m feeling a certain je ne sais quoi emotional satisfaction with the South by Southwest premiere of Alexandre Philippe‘s The People vs. George Lucas, a takedown doc about a guy I’ve long regarded as the single most demonic figure in the motion picture industry.

I’ve been calling Lucas a devil figure since the late ’90s, so even if Phillippe’s doc turns out to be so-so it still feels good to have it out there and its central thesis — that Lucas is a very real metaphor for total flaccidifying of directorial chops and a complete corruption of the spirit — presented en masse.

I can remember David Poland cluck-clucking when I called Lucas “the devil” in the wake of The Phantom Menace, which was nearly 11 years ago. And now the world has come around, the sands have shifted and it’s time for Poland to bow down and say “okay, you had a point.”

“George Lucas is not the devil, Jeffrey,” he said. He most certainly is, I replied, in the sense that Albert Brooks called William Hurt “the devil” in Broadcast News. Lucas is an embodiment of evil in that he destroyed his own Arthurian mythology and sacrificed the church of millions of Star Wars believers on the altar of commercialism and Jake Lloyd and Jar-Jar Binks action-figures.

Poland has never been wrong or off-the-mark in his opinions, of course. His psychology, I should say, doesn’t allow for any admissions along these lines. On top of which his “Jeffrey who?” posture has been maintained for years on end so forget it. But I was out there on the battle lines, calling for Lucas’s head when Bill Clinton was still president and assigning all kinds of odious metaphors, etc. And Poland knows this, and he knows that he fairly staunchly defended Lucas and his creations all through that awful Phantom Menace period. I’m not saying he loved the film, but he found a way to say it’s okay and that Lucas had his reasons and rationales.

“Lucas began as Luke Skywalker, and has been described by biographer Dale Pollock as a kind of a brave and beautiful warrior when he was under the gun and struggling to make it in the ’60s and into the early ’70s,” I wrote a couple of years ago. “But once he got fat and successful he slowly began to morph into an amiable corporate-minded Darth Vader figure.”

Christopher Walken gives the single most enjoyable performance I’ve ever seen him give, bar none, in A Behanding in Spokane, which I caught yesterday afternoon. It’s a classic “Walken performance” par excellence — hilarious, bent, brilliant, a hoot. The play’s (i.e., Martin McDonaugh‘s) humor is dark and perverse and most definitely around the bend, but in a Quentin Tarantino/Pulp Fiction-y sense, to some extent.

The pisshead critics who’ve dismissed Behanding for lacking soul and gravitas aren’t deluded, but they’re under-value-ing (or discounting) the delicious whack factor.

The audience was laughing all through it. Really laughing, I mean. And we’re talking about a mostly Saturday Night Live crowd — i.e., people in bizarrely-patterned sweaters and easy-fit jeans and ugly Nike shoes who showed up, I’m guessing, because of Walken’s numerous hosting gigs on that show over the years, and because of that Fat Boy Slim video. It’s a play for people who love hamburgers and potato salad, not arugula and foie gras. I realize that I put down the hamburger-and-potato-salad crowd (i.e., Joe Popcorn) all the time, but Behanding put me in a different frame of mind. I guess it’s really a play for the hamburger-and-foie gras demo…how about that?

Some audience members may have attended because they loved Walken’s scene with Dennis Hopper in True Romance, or because of his oddly or crazily enjoyable turns in King of New York , At Close Range or Things To Do in Denver When You’re Dead. But not many, I’m guessing.

Sam Rockwell, playing an intellectually-challenged hotel clerk, seems to quietly snicker his way through the show. He’s in the role and in the play in a serious thespian sense, but he’s having such a good time it’s like he’s almost goofing off besides, and it’s infectious. You’re with him. Zoe Kazan and Anthony Mackie portray clueless con artists — not that interesting on the page — but they bring a certain firecracker farce quality. The play is that much more charged because of them.

A Behanding in Spokane isn’t about all that much. If anything it’s about how we’re all stuck in our own realms, caught up with our pasts, pissed off, looking to settle scores, keeping ourselves from living in the here-and-now. That theme is there, but the play itself is pure dark-assed entertainment. You go out on a high. Money well spent.

In a piece that ran yesterday (3.12), Toronto Star critic Peter Howell declared that “of the many conspiracy theories advanced for why The Hurt Locker beat Avatar at the Academy Awards, the only one that holds water is based on terrified actors.

“The actors’ branch is the largest single bloc amongst the academy’s nearly 6,000 voters,” he reminds, “and the thinking goes that flesh-and-blood thespians balked at giving Best Picture to a movie that triumphantly featured computers over humans. A vote for Avatar, rightly or wrongly, was viewed as a vote to put yourself out of a job.”

Not to take anything away from Howell, but he’s echoing a suspicion that The Envelope‘s Pete Hammond had reported about three days earlier, having spoken to various older thesps at a pre-Oscar party last weekend.

Update: Howell has told me he resents an implication that he may have borrowed the idea from Hammond’s column without giving credit, which, being a totally respected pro, he always does when appropriate. He didn’t see Hammond’s column, he says, and based his piece on “discussions with real live sources.” I only meant to point out that Hammond was the first to run an interview-supported article suggesting that the actors killed Avatar‘s Best Picture shot — that’s all. Nothing more than that.

You can’t fully trust Variety‘s Joe Leydon when it comes to South by Southwest reviews. He’s a Houston guy, of course, and I for one have always sensed a certain local-pride spirit in his writings from this Austin-based festival. He also tends to go too easy on genre crap. And so I’m processing his rave review of Matthew Vaughn‘s Kick Ass (Lionsgate, 4.16), which had its big SXSW debut last night, with a degree of suspicion.

This despite an HE friend insisting via e-mail that Kick-Ass “is the real deal — trust me. Maybe a little too wanting to be controversial with the Hit Girl character but this is going to be very big. Cage hasn’t been this good in ages. The movie is a huge crowd-pleaser and more clever than the masses could ever imagine.”

“Kick-Ass most certainly does,” Leydon begins. “Equal parts audacious dark comedy, wish-fulfillment fantasy and over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek action-adventure, Matthew Vaughn’s bloody funny adaptation of a cult-fave comicbook series manages to be sufficiently faithful to its source material to please fervent fanboys while remaining easily accessible for ticketbuyers unfamiliar with the superhero storytelling conventions

“Vaughn (Layer Cake) and co-scripter Jane Goldman satirize as well as celebrate. Scenes of hilariously overstated violence perpetrated by an 11-year-old girl doubtless will discomfort many and incense quite a few. But this deservedly R-rated Lionsgate release should nonetheless score a knockout in theatrical and homevid venues.”

“Deservedly” R-rated? I think we all know what that means.

I know a bit about Vaughn from Layer Cake, at least to the extent that I know that he’s not exactly Mr. Subtle — i.e., he likes to lather it on and then some.

I’d be into the Robert Rodriguez–Nimrod Antal Predators (20th Century Fox, 7.9) if I was even half-persuaded that Predators will be to the original Predator what James Cameron‘s Aliens was to Ridley Scott‘s Alien — i.e., faster, more intense, emotionally grounded, a general uptick.

But of course, that can’t be. Not with Rodriguez’s B-movie aesthetic defining the perimeters. I respect Antal (Kontrol, Vacancies), but the fact that Rodriguez played Big Alpha Kahuna at last night’s South by Southwest preview tells you it’s basically his film. Wall Street Journal/Speakeasy‘s Eric Kohn filed a report early this morning about the event.

There’s almost nothing in the filing about about Kick Ass, which also screened last night. All Kohn says is that it’s “a vibrant take on the superhero movie genre.” That’s it? In other words, it’s a ho-hummer, a disappointment? It sure sounds that way because his next line says that Rodriguez’s Predators preview “stole the show.” That’s a little bit of a review, no?

Kohn’s full-on Kick Ass review is forthcoming.

Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson called it “a nasty hard-R superhero spoof designed to outrage and delight. And it will destroy at the b.o. when Liongsate opens it in two weeks.” “Nasty”? “Designed to outrage”? In other words, lacking in wit, cleverness, refinement. Sure sounds that way. Made for the animals.

I’ve run my share of typos on Hollywood Elsewhere. Hell, they happen every other hour. And I fix them as quickly as I can. When I spotted this Robert Rodriguez-related typo in a 3.12 Anne Thompson/Indiewire posting from South by Southwest, I knew she’d catch it sooner or later. And she has. But if she hadn’t I would have said that the proper phrasing should have been “he shat out both Predators and his own Machete,” etc.

I laughed, of course, because Rodriguez does shit his films out, like all genre wallowers who want nothing more than to operate from their cheesy little comfort zone.

We’ve all felt instant attractions to certain actors and actresses, and we’ve also felt instant repulsions. I was walking down Eighth Avenue yesterday when the one-sheet for She’s Out Of My League (Dreamworks, 3.12) caught my eye, and…I’m going to let readers guess which one of these dudes I took an instant dislike to. (Hint: not Jay Baruchel.) It was a kind of reverse thunderbolt sensation, and it involved no logic whatsoever. One look at that idiotically dorky smile and I knew.

A recent Criterion newsletter has included this visual clue for the officially un-announced but reportedly forthcoming Criterion Bluray of Terrence Malick‘s The Thin Red Line. If I’d written the caption I would have had the lion say, “I’ve never met a leaf I didn’t like.” That, at least, would directly allude to TTRL rather than “feelin’ red and blu.” A red lion doesn’t need to state the obvious.

Recently whacked Variety film critic Todd McCarthy has officially joined the notoriously dweeby New York Film Festival selection committee. Already in place, of course, are program director Richard Pena, NYFF associate director (and ex-LA Weekly film critic) Scott Foundas, Melissa Anderson and Dennis Lim. McCarthy told me a few days ago he’ll go to Cannes in this new capacity.