Four days ago The Gothamist‘s John Del Signore posted an interview with A Serious Man costar Fred Melamed — i,.e., the bulky balding bearded guy who plays Sy Abelman. I adore Melamed’s performance in this film, but then I love every aspect of this under-loved Coen brothers’ masterpiece.

“It’s funny, people always talk about the ending,” Malamed says. “They say they’re unsatisfied by the ending, they didn’t like it — friends of mine, people I respect. To me, the ending of the movie sends you back into the movie. The endings of some movies ease you out of the movie and back to your normal life. You say, ‘That was an interesting movie, now I’m going to have my dinner or whatever.’ But somehow this movie stays in some part of your brain, at least it did for me, and you really wind up thinking about it a lot.”

In his 1.25 Movieline review of Michael Winterbottom‘s The Killer Inside Me, Seth Abramovitch describes the brutal scene in which Jessica Alba is beaten to a pulp by Casey Affleck‘s Lou.

“After making love [to Alba] and discussing their plans to reconvene a few weeks down the line, Lou pulls on a pair of black gloves, then begins to punch Alba in the face, at full force, repeatedly. The camera does not turn away, and as he takes a good dozen shots at her head, her features begin to distort at each impact with his closed fist. As she lies on the floor, unconscious, unrecognizable and barely breathing, he asks if she can hear him. He tells her he loves her, and that’s he’s sorry. He then [delivers] several more punches.”

The backers of this film are anticipating that Joe Popcorn will want to pay to see this? The deal as I understand it is that if Eli Roth is directing it’s totally deplorable torture porn, but if Michael Winterbottom is directing it’s a Sundance entry and a film that upscale cineastes might want to see.

Remember Cary Grant‘s irritation in Bringing Up Baby when Katharine Hepburn told her mother that his name is “Mr. Bone”? In that light, Winter’s Bone, Debra Granik‘s dramatic competition entry, is arguably the strangest-sounding and most unintriguing title among all the films showing at Sundance 2010. (The other contender for this prize is Restrepo, Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington‘s doc about an Iraq War veteran.)

But MSN’s James Rocchi assures that Granik’s film ranks very high on his list and that I should make every effort. My next and only remaining shot at seeing it will be at the Racquet Club on Tuesday at 8:30 am. Granik’s last film was the memorable Down to the Bone (which included a break-out performance by Vera Farmiga), so she obviously has a thing about that word.

In the wake of last night’s surprise Hurt Locker win at the Producer’s Guild awards, The Wrap‘s Steve Pond has written that he “can easily see a scenario in which Avatar will lose the Best Picture Oscar, probably to The Hurt Locker.” And The Winner Is columnist Scott Feinberg has also assessed the meaning of Sunday’s apparent game-changer.

Aaron Johnson gave a decent performance as John Lennon in Nowhere Boy, but my dislike of that film instilled a collateral animus toward the guy. Perhaps I can get past this with the help of Matthew Vaughn‘s Kick-Ass (Lionsgate, 4.16).

I’ve always felt that the late Jean Simmons peaked with her luminous performances as Julie Maragon in The Big Country (’58), Sister Sharon Falconer in Elmer Gantry (’60) and Varinia in Spartacus (ditto). To some her British accent suggested a prudish nature, but her scenes with Kirk Douglas in Spartacus had a potent erotic current.

Simmons was married to Stewart Granger and director Richard Brooks. She was treated for an alcohol problem in the ’80s, and she apparently smoked for several years. She died on 1.22 at age 80 — she was born on 1.29.29 — from lung cancer. Classy lady, beautiful eyes.

Echoing comments I heard last night at a Killer Inside Me after-party at Zoom, Screen International‘s David D’Arcy has written that Michael Winterbottom‘s “staggeringly violent” adaptation of Jim Thompson’s 1952 novel “reaches a new extreme in the cinematic depiction of a psychopathic murderer. It is hard to watch — and for some will be impossible — regardless of any psychological logic behind its many killings.

Kate Hudson, Casey Affleck in Michael Winterbottom’s The Killer Inside Me.

“Audiences up to their ears in serial killers may enter this film thinking they already know them all. Winterbottom will prove them wrong.

“Distributors everywhere will be shy of this film, despite Winterbottom’s established reputation. Anyone releasing it will be dogged by its violence, especially towards women. Theatrical response should be similar to Antichrist, another film whose violence is at the extreme of what is watchable. He adds that “audiences [may] attack the film on grounds of misogyny.”

I decided not to attend last night’s Killer Inside Me screening at the Eccles in order to retire to the close-to-freezing Yarrow hotel lobby in order to write my Runaways review.

Retired Microsoft billionaire Bill Gates has written about attending Sundance, mainly due to an interest in seeing Davis Guggenheim ‘s Waiting For Superman. He calls Redford’s Ordinary People his “all-time favorite,” and adds that he “really like[s]” every movie Redford has directed. (Including The Legend of Bagger Vance, a.k.a. Bag of Gas?) He also mentions that The Great Gatsby is among his favorite Redford performances. Gates’ writing is bland, to put it kindly.

For the most part Floria Sigismondi‘s The Runaways (Apparition, 3.19) is an absorbing, highly charged, better-than-average ’70s rock saga. I’m giving it a solid B. Maybe a B-minus. The reasons for the voltage are Kristen Stewart‘s scrappy performance as Joan Jett, the Runaways co-founder who went on to become a solo rock legend in the ’80s, and Michael Shannon‘s as L.A. rock impresario Kim Fowley. And the music, of course.

The Runaways costars Dakota Fanning (who plays Cherie Curie) and Kristen Stewart (who plays Joan Jett) at Eccles lecturn following this evening’s screening of Floria Sigismondi’s above-average ’70s rock saga,

Former Runaways stars Joan Jett, Cherie Curie on stage during post-screening q & a.

As long as the film is focused on Stewart and Shannon and the generally pungent ’70s atmosphere, it radiates badass attitude and seems authentically plugged in to the spirit of ’70s rebel rock.

Unfortunately, Sigismondi’s script is primarily based on Currie’s autobiography, Neon Angel: The Cherie Currie Story, which tells of her background plus her drug and alcohol problem that arose from her success with the Runaways.

This means that in too many portions we’re stuck watching Curie’s fairly boring story, since no rock-industry cliche is more mind-numbing than the one about a famous rock star burning out on drugs. Which also means we’re stuck with Dakota Fanning , who gives an opaque, space-case performance as Curie — blankness personified. That’s my opinion, at least. Some journalist pallies in the Eccles lobby were differing with me after the film, but that’s what makes a ballgame.

Update: I was recalling this morning how Kim Fowley, Joan Jett and Cherie Currie bitch about each other in George Hickenlooper‘s Rodney Bingenheimer documentary The Mayor of Sunset Strip.

Tonight The Hurt Locker won the Producer’s Guild of America’s Daryl F. Zanuck award…yippee! This creates a major upping of the suspense factor in the all-important Academy Award face-off. Suddenly, it seems, Avatar is not a foregone conclusion to win the Best Picture Oscar. The Hollywood Reporter’s Gregg Kilday wrote earlier this evening that The Hurt Locker “now seizes the moment.”

“Welcome to the Rileys follows a familiar trope with James Gandolfini as an Indiana plumbing-parts entrepreneur taking a fatherly interest in a young stripper (Kristen Stewart) he meets while at a convention in New Orleans. To the credit of writer-director Jake Scott, it’s a chaste relationship that builds in affection and mutual trust, although Gandolfini and Melissa Leo, as a married couple, have a history we’ve seen before — i.e., going through the motions since their teen daughter was killed several years earlier.

James Gandolfini, Kristen Stewart

“Rileys doesn’t make any Hollywood plot turns, preferring to focus on the realistic prospects of a Midwestern couple suddenly trying to assume a parental role in the life of this young runaway.

“It’s also smart enough not to make a big deal out of the emotional estrangement between Gandolfini and Leo: no simmering recriminations, or angry venting of years-old anger. They instead offer beautifully modulated performances as a couple that has lost its way, although would like to find it back.

“Stewart attacks her role with a clarity and ferocity that is compelling. Stewart brings an emotional nakedness and spirit to the role that is reminiscent of certain male actors when they were young: Sean Penn for one, Leonardo DiCaprio for another.” — from Marshall Fine‘s recently-posted review.