Washington Post critic Michael O’Sullivan is calling Darnell Martin‘s Cadillac Records “a rousing, fast-paced tale, told with a modicum of verve and packed with colorfully flawed, occasionally heroic and even tragic characters. It also feels disappointingly bloated and too fast-paced by half. Cramming in that history doesn’t leave much room for — oh, I don’t know — story.

Kevin Mambo as Jimmy Rogers, Columbus Short as Little Walter and Jeffrey Wright as Muddy Waters

“History is propelled forward by the filmmaker’s over-reliance on such now-stale staples of musical biopics as the montage of nightclub marquees, ka-ching-ing cash registers, close-ups zooming in on the names of chart-topping singles and newspaper headlines. It’s a breathless approach, leaving little time in this speeding, noisy, overcrowded Cadillac to take in anything other than the milestones that go whizzing past.”

How, then, to explain the unqualified rave given to the film by the always observant N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott? Because Scott seems to be into soul music big-time — his review suggests it’s been been making his spirit soar for decades — and so he’s decided to emphasize what he feels in his heart rather than nit-pick Cadillac Records to death.

Scott is especially appreciative of Jeffrey Wright‘s portrayal of blues singer and guitarist Muddy Waters. In his various portrayals of famous African-Americans, Wright “directs our attention away from the familiar, public face of the character in question toward a private zone where ambition struggles with anxiety, and where what seems to be at stake is nothing less than the integrity and viability of the self,” Scott observes. “And so, in his Muddy Waters, we see pride, ambition and uncertainty cohabiting with musical genius, sexual appetite and stubborn professionalism.”

Never underestimate the ability of a person possessed by demons to make reasonable people follow his/her lead and go temporarily mad or lose their composure. Especially if the possessed is an entertainment publicist. I’m not saying what you’re about to read happened last year or last month or a few days ago, but it did happen. At a big-deal premiere for a film. A minor mistake metastasized into Deep Ugly when a certain publicist poured kerosene on it and then threw a match. Brilliant.

The trouble started when I was given the wrong theatre ticket by the guy at the will-call table. I said my name clearly, twice, but I failed to put on my glasses so I could see the name on the envelope, which had my last name right but not the first. I should have put on my glasses and checked the name. My bad.

I went inside, said hi to a publicist friend and asked about snapping a big-name actor in the film at the after-party, and then went into the theatre I was directed to. Right away it felt wrong as my assigned seat was taken by someone else, and a young girl handling seating decided that I must be in the wrong theatre. Then another girl handling seating came to the same conclusion. Their vibe was a little accusatory — “you don’t feel right, you belong elsewhere, we’re going to figure this out.” I decided the best thing would be to stand in the back of the theatre and wait for a resolution.

Then a publicist with frosty blonde swept-back hair came in with a security goon and said a mistake had been made and then asked for the ticket back. I gave it to her — no problem. Everything would have been cool if she had said “sorry, we messed up, I think you were given the wrong ticket, let me have it and I’ll get you the right one.” But her vibe was icy, haughty, dismissive (“I don’t know you”). A mating of Evita Peron and Cruella De Ville.

She then asked for the two party tickets I was holding in a white envelope and I refused. “What does the party have to do with where I sit?,” I said. “I was invited by [publicist’s name], I’m here to help out the film,” etc. But I was ready to give them up anyway in the interests of peace and harmony as long as I had assurance. So I said to her, “Will you replace these two tickets?” and she said, “I’ll give you a party ticket.” No, I said — not “a” ticket but two tickets, as I’d arranged for a friend to join me later.

In response to this, this master of finesse and diplomacy shut down the conversation then and there and told the goons to throw me out of the theatre.

Two goons escorted me out to the lobby and told me I’d have to leave the premises. I said I’m not leaving because I was invited. I don’t mind saying that I was, at this point, livid. I was being treated like a crasher, a slumdog. It feels awful to be restrained by two big guys standing on either side of you, like you’re a prisoner on the way to a lock-up. It was the next thing to being handcuffed. I was saying to myself, “How dare they do this? I was invited, I’m here to see the movie and help out,” etc., and I’m being minded by two linebacker-sized apes.

Then the haughty publicist speedily walked by and I lunged over and grabbed her arm to get her attention and said, “Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?” She turned and walked away.

Then a publicist friend finally came over and said I was cool and I was told to go into another, grubbier theatre, which I did. Then the haughty and dismissive publicist came in with two goons and had them escort me out of the theatre. “Again?” I said, doubly outraged, but this time I went.

On the way out I was told this was happening because I had “pushed” Ms. Haught. A willful fabrication from a professional liar. To push someone is a blatantly aggressive act, but I didn’t do this. I wanted Frosty’s attention so I grabbed her arm because (a) I didn’t know her name, (b) she wasn’t looking in my direction (i.e., was pointedly not allowing for eye contact so as to avoid conversation) so a gesture or a wave or a “hey, lady!” wouldn’t have worked, and (c) she had already demonstrated her refusal to talk to me and had actually directed security to have me thrown out of the theatre because I wouldn’t surrender the party tickets.

I should have lightly touched the fiendish publicist’s arm, at most. But I felt abused and mauled and violated, and I wanted justice.

The next day I wrote the haughty publicist and apologized for the arm-grab. I realize how it felt from her end, I wrote, but I’d been treated much, much more aggressively at her command. I was humiliated in front of others by being held against my will by a pair of big fat apes. On top of her order to have me thrown me out of the theatre because I wouldn’t surrender the party tickets — a party I was invited to by a publicist representing the film! But I should have sucked it in and chilled down. My bad.

If you ask me, the title of this Bilge Ebiri New York/Vulture story implies that somewhere out there are ten mezzo-mezzo movie Nixons, and perhaps ten forgettable move Nixons on top of these. The idea of 30 or 40 Nixons…a battallion of Nixons…Nixons in leotards doing the Rockettes kick…an infinite number of scurrying, rat-like Nixons….an Army of Nixon waiters in Being Richard Nixon.

“With Ron Howard’s Frost/Nixon opening this week — along with the release of hundreds of new hours of Nixon tapes — America’s 37th president is back in the news,” Ebiri begins. “And it couldn’t have come at a more critical time — let’s face it, Tricky Dick’s claim to the title of America’s Premier Political Bogeyman has been shaky these past eight years. But until Dubya headlines his own torture-porn horror franchise (hey, it could happen), Richard Milhous Nixon will still be the nation’s favorite movie president — only Lincoln, with his hundred-year head start, can even hope to challenge him.”

“At 78, perhaps the only actor in the history of American cinema to convincingly kick the butt of a guy 60 years his junior, the hard-headed, snarly mouthed Clint Eastwood of the 1970s comes growling back to life in Gran Torino,” writes Variety‘s Todd McCarthy. “Centered on a cantankerous curmudgeon who can fairly be described as Archie Bunker fully loaded (with beer and guns), the actor-director’s second release of the season is his most stripped-down, unadorned picture in many a year, even as it continues his long preoccupation with race in American society.

“Highlighted by the star’s vastly entertaining performance, this funny, broad but ultimately serious-minded drama about an old-timer driven to put things right in his deteriorating neighborhood looks to be a big audience-pleaser with mainstream viewers of all ages.” Methinks the key words in this last package are the words “audience pleaser.” Know what that means? You don’t?

Of all the non-competition films at Sundance ’09 (Premieres, Spectrum, Frontier, Park City at Midnight), the one I’m least interested in seeing, no offense, is Marc Webb‘s 500 Days of Summer, which is about Joseph Gordon-Levitt flashing back to his relationship with Zooey Deschanel and trying to figure out why she broke up with him. I’m already suffering just thinking about this film.

Any guy who doesn’t understand exactly what’s happening and not happening at any moment in a romantic relationship holds no interest for me. Only losers go “what went wrong?…waaahh” when things don’t work out. Winners know what’s going to happen before it happens, and they hold the door open for the woman as she leaves, and they give her cab fare.

The National Board of Review has handed Slumdog Millonaire their Best Picture award, but the big surprise was their handing Clint Eastwood the 2008 Best Actor award for his snarlin’ Gran Torino performance, and also giving their Best Original Screenplay award to Gran Torino‘s Nick Schenk .

Surprising because the NBR’s praise doesn’t square with MCN’s David Poland calling GT a wash, N.Y. Times reporter Michael Cieply sounding derisively smart-ass about Eastwood’s personality being less likable than his dog’s, and another online columnist suggesting that Torino might be a Razzie award contender.

Something’s wrong here. Somebody’s over-reacting or something. Either the West Coasters are mis-reading this movie big-time and fickling out on their own orbits, or the NBR members are trying to whorishly out-do themselves. That said, a major New York columnist and a major critic are both thumbs-up on Torino, and a major Left Coast syndicate writer and critic is an admirer also, I’m told.

Slulmdog Millionaire took the Best Picture prize, and Benjamin Button director David Fincher won for Best Director.

Rachel Getting Married‘s Anne Hathaway blew away stiff competitors Kate Winslet and Kristin Scott Thomas to take the Best Actress award. Go figure.

Josh Brolin‘s Dan White performance in Milk won for Best Supporting Actor. (Very tough competition in this category also — Heath Ledger for The Dark Knight, Robert Downey Jr. for Tropic Thunder, Philip Seymour Hoffman for Doubt, and Michael Shannon for Revolutionary Road.)

And Vicky Christina Barcelona‘s Penelope Cruz won for Best Supporting Actress, beating out Doubt‘s Viola Davis.

The NBR’s Best Foreign Language Film award went to…Mongol?

The NBR weirdos made the right call, however, in giving their Best Documentary award to James Marsh‘s Man on Wire, their Best Animated Feature award to WALL*E and the Best Ensemble Cast award to Doubt.

Slumdog‘s Dev Patel won the Breakthrough Performance by an Actor award, and Viola Davis, who’s been doing great work in movies and plays for many years, won the NBR’s Breakthrough Performance by an Actress award for her one killer scene work in Doubt.

Frozen River‘s Courtney Hunt won the Best Directorial Debut award, and Slumdog‘s Simon Beaufoy and Benjamin Button‘s Eric Roth tied, apparently, for Best Adapted Screenplay.

The Spotlight Awards went to Frozen River‘s Melissa Leo and The Visitor‘s Richard Jenkins.

The NBR’s Top Ten films in alphabetical order: Burn After Reading, Changeling,

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Dark Knight, Defiance, Frost/Nixon, Gran Torino, Milk, WALL*E, The Wrestler.

Top Five Foreign Language Films (in alphabetical order): Ege of Heaven, Let The Right One In, Roman de Guerre, A Secret and Waltz With Bashir.

Top Five Documentary Films (in alphabetical order): American Teen (what?), The Betrayal, Dear Zachary, Encounters at the End of the World and Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired.

According to Michael Cieply‘s 12.4 N.Y. Times mini-trend piece about Sundance ’09, or more particularly the remarks he uses from Sundance director Geoff Gilmore, the tone of the festival will signify “an unusual tilt toward the emotional — maybe even melodramatic — side of independent cinema.”

“Audiences this year are going to be surprised,” Gilmore tells Cieply about the 1.15 to 1.25 gathering in Park City, Utah. “The range of emotions evoked by the films is going to be greater than in the past.”

In short, Sundance ’09 spelled backwards means heart-tugging?

But only three emotional-type films are mentioned — Shana Feste‘s The Greatest, a “three hankie” drama about a family dealing with the loss of a teenage son with Pierce Brosnan and Susan Sarandon starring; Ross Katz‘s Taking Chance, a true-life drama about a military escort officer (Kevin Bacon) escorting the body of a dead marine back to his hometown in Wyoming; and Lee Daniels‘ Push, about “the trails of an abused girl in Harlem.”

For a festival the size of Sundance, don’t you need to be showing more than three films of a particular stripe to announce a trend, even a mini-sized one?

Push, says Gilmore, is “so dark, but I cried so hard at the end of it.” Okay, but I’ve seen Daniels’ previous film, Shadowboxer, and it struck me as nto great — gratuitous here and there and (sorry) not all that tightly focused, emotionally or otherwise. So on Push alone, I would advise a little cuidado. I studied Daniels during a post-screening q & a about Shadowboxer at the ’05 Santa Barbara Fim Festival, and I don’t trust the guy. I feel on some level that I know his game, or at least the game he was playing three years ago.

HE’s “age-ist” columnist Moises Chiullan on the Blue Hair Mafia and Oscar scene.

This is a bad time to bring anything up about poor Mark Ruffalo given his brother’s recent shooting tragedy, but I’ve been thinking about how strong (i.e., unforced, uncomplicated) he is in What Doesn’t Kill You and also that post from an HE reader a day or two ago that he should play Marlon Brando in a biopic. If — I say if — a Brando biopic were to happen, who better could fill the role?

Marlon Brando, Mark Ruffalo

I already know the story and the theme. The film would be about Brando’s decline into self-disgust and Hollywood cynicism, or how his career went from the high-toned quality streak of the early to mid ’50s — The Men, Streetcar, Viva Zapata, The Wild One, Julius Ceasar and On The Waterfront — into rank or less distinguished big-money Hollywood pics like The Egyptian (which Brando refused to do), Desiree (awful), Guys and Dolls (tolerable but that’s all), Teahouse of the August Moon (shallow), etc.

The sad tale would end with his last attempt at artistic self-definition in a take-charge, master-of-his-own-fate mode — i.e., the direction of the moody psychological western One-Eyed Jacks. Brando’s career went into a gradual decline mode for 13 years straight after Jacks came out and was mostly seen as something of a disappointment (even though its reputation today is sterling), only to revive again with The Godfather and Last Tango in Paris.

So what happened with the Seven Pounds (Sony, 12.19) screening in Los Angeles last night that Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil moderated the post-screening discussion of? No reactions, plot spoilings, analogies to Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, etc.?

Last night I finally listened to this mp3 of Clint Eastwood‘s half-talking, half Tom Waits-ean singing of the Gran Torino song. It’s okay. Clint shouldn’t have named the tune “Gran Torino” (i.e., too on-the-nose), but I’m not hugely bothered by this — just mildly so. Otherwise it’s a whaddaya-whaddaya.