…David Poland‘s Best Picture spitball roster would be an object of partial ridicule.

Forget Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein in this context.

Pleased and throttled as I was with F1, it doesn’t sufficiently sink in to primal undercurrents —- too super-mechanized and hyper-edited — to qualify as a Best Picture contender.

Is there anyone who’s looking forward to Wicked: For Good, much less anticipating a wowser blowout?

The second half of Sinners is vampire schlock, and it’s really, REALLY time to hit the brakes on identity campaigns.

Lanthimos’s Bugonia is minor.

I would love it if Weapons could somehow elbow its way into Best Picture contention, but the notion of Materialists having even half of a chance…please.

HE’s Likely Keepers (10)

Joachim Trier ‘s Sentimental Value (a high-pedigree family drama that really stirs and churns and delivers the whole soul package)

Paul Thomas Anderson‘s One Battle After Another (haven’t seen it, having just returned from Milan a few hours ago, but almost all the formidable critics are panting and wagging their tails)

Richard Linklater Nouvelle Vague (an affectionate, close-to-perfect, time-travel valentine to Jean–Luc Godard‘s late ‘50s cinematic game changer)

Luca Guadagnino‘s After The Hunt (so much more and so much better than what the woke scolds at the Venice Film Festival were stating in lockstep fashion…the measured, drip-drip, low key atmospherics are fascinating…the first major Hollywood prestige film to say “okay but wait a minute” about #MeToo theology)

Chloe Zhao‘s Hamnet (haven’t seen it but the wings of the Telluride creamolas have certainly generated the right kind of cool Academy breeze)

Bradley Cooper’s Is This Thing On? (nobody’s seen it)

Noah Baumbach Jay Kelly (a smooth, 60ish movie star gets called on his bullshit, lets his guard down, tries to grapple…very industry-accurate, very Academy friendly)

Zach‘s Cregger Weapons (HE-approved elevated horror and a box-office smash)

Kaouther ben Hania‘s The Voice of Hind Rajab (devastating, ultra-topical Gaza gutslammer that indicts Israel and then some)

Kathryn Bigelow’s A House of Dynamite (rousing, Fail Safe-adjacent nuclear thriller that warns how technologically underserved this country is, how vulnerable our key strategists and leaders are under the surface, and how generally tinderbox-y things are out there).

…that “violence is as American as apple pie,” prominent people are saying, in the wake of Charlie Kirk’s murder earlier today and with a totally straight face, that “there’s no place in our society for violence.”

There’s certainly zero tolerance for political killings, obviously, but if there’s any country in which there’s a “place” for this kind of appalling hate and nihilism, it’s this one. It’s a tradition, a virus, a disease that runs in the blood.

Kirk was 31 with a wife and young kids, and now he’s out in the cosmos, staring down at our blue planet and corresponding shitshow of a country, and muttering “what the fuck?”

Sidenote: I process everything in cinematic terms so please, no offense intended. But “taking it in the neck” is a term I’ve used from time to time, meaning aggressively criticized or condemned, hard and decisively. I was asking myself as I watched yesterday’s alarming Kirk shooting footage (which has since been digitally fuzzed over by everyone) on the Emirates Milan-to-JFK flight, I was asking myself when was the last time a major character (hero or villain) was shot in the neck. I’m thinking Charlton Heston‘s Taylor in Planet of the Apes — he’s neck-shot by a gorilla with a rifle, and can’t talk for a long stretch as a result.

Onboard wifi routinely craps out when crossing the Atlantic — I understand and can roll with that. What’s outrageous is being asked to re-sign and re-pay to activate it. Emirates will return the dough, I’ve been assured, but still…

With the 9.26 New York Film Festival showing of Luca Guadagnino ‘s After The Hunt fast approaching, keep in mind what recently happened to this fascinating, bravely ambiguous and certifiably un-woke drama about an alleged sexual assault incident on the Yale campus.

A sizable horde of Venice Film Festival critics clobbered this forthcoming Amazon-MGM release (10.10) for two…make that three reasons, and none of them honorable:

(1) Hunt adopts a posture of skepticism and/or uncertainty regarding a sexual assault charge leveled by Ayo Edibiri’s Maggie, a privileged, lesbian, allegedly mediocre student, against Andrew Garfield‘s Hank, a professor looking at tenure who suspects Maggie has plagiarized a term paper. This in itself is enough to warrant critical dismissal as the woke manual says filmmakers aren’t allowed to portray a progressive woman of color (and especially a non-hetero one) as possibly shady or seemingly hair-triggered in a standard mode of Zoomer alarmism.

(2) The film suggests what may have happened but refuses to clearly state who the proverbial “wrong one” might be. To some a film with an ambiguous attitude about a possible campus rape situation…this is also reason for dismissal as woke-leaning critics are nothing if not intolerant of a failure to morally condemn a suspected white-male sexual transgressor. Especially when the alleged victim is a woman of color.

(3) Guadagnino’s decision to use a classic Woody Allen font for Hunt’s opening credits is another woke no-no, as it signals not only a certain respect for and allegiance with the Woodman but a corresponding skepticism about Dylan Farrow‘s decades-old accusation of sexual molestation (i.e., having allegedly been fingered) against Allen. This is tantamount to Guadagnino waving a red flag at the bulls. I loved the Allen symbolism, but many wokeys go into flared-nostril mode when pro-Allen types reveal their colors.

Please re-read my 8.29 Venice review, and consider sone of the comments posted about World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy’s 8.29 piece about the negative reactions. Note: “Pierrot le fou” is mistaken about Ayo’s character being characterized as “having made up the assault”…the film implies that she may be faking it, but that’s all.

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I’ve never had my wallet snatched in my life…not once…but last Saturday afternoon a certain light-fingered felon sure as hell overturned the HE applecart and opened a floodgate of stress and anguish.

All day Sunday (train to Milan, an “express” train out to Malpensa Airport, back to Milan) and for most of Monday, I felt cursed and doomed, not to mention like a beast of burden, dragging my bag all over town. Trudge, slog, trudge, slog. People are strange when you’re a stranger…faces look ugly when your cash and plastic have flown.

The passport renewal process began and that felt constructive, but man, I was shagged, fagged and damp.

But then sunlight pierced through, right out of the effing blue. A friend introduced me to Thea Scognamiglio, a Doctors Without Borders epidemiologist, and her gracious husband Francesco Battigelli, and within a couple of hours I was parked on a couch inside their sprawling, top-floor abode in a quiet, historical section of Milan (southwest of Sforza Castle), and then the air ticket issue was finally resolved (suffice that SAS fares are cheap because they have no staff to help people in a tough spot…not recommended) and then I was offered a nice spacious bedroom, and it felt so soothing I almost wept.

Over and over life has taught me that Italians deal cards with more heart than most other cultures, and in this respect or at least from my perspective, Thea rules the roost. She fulfills my concept of a Zen-spirit vessel, only casually laid-back…calm, conversationally candid, worldly and brilliant as they come. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She’s like a figure out of mythology.  Within a couple of hours I felt restored, cleansed, saved…the nightmare goblins had flown away like crows.

Last night we went on a delightful stroll through her relatively traffic-free neighborhood, and passed by the ruins of the Circo Romano (Via Circo, 12, 20123 Milano). Francesco joined us for dinner at a quiet outdoor bar-restaurant.   The last time I visited Milan was in ’92, and I barely scratched the surface. I realized last night that, thanks to Thea and Francesco, I was beginning to finally savor the refined, inside-baseball aspects (cultural, historical, architectural, spiritual) of Milan. I was finally starting to “get it.”

Friendo: “Milano is a very secret city that tends to reveal its beauty and sophistication slowly, and in time.”

Today I had a late lunch with Jessica, an American friend of Thea’s. Movie lover, open-hearted, constantly grinning plus she vaguely resembles a post-peak Gloria Grahame but with blonde hair. We met at Antica Trattoria della Pesca, where Ho Chi Minh lived and worked in the 1930s. Levitationsl Milanese cuisine.

Never say that IndieWire’s David Ehrlich doesn’t go bold when so inspired. From another angle, he’s basically saying that Paul Thomas Anderson‘s One Battle After Another, which I haven’t seen and which may in fact be everything that Ehrlich says it is, is better, grander, deeper and more super-charged than the following 2010-and-later films….

Roman Polanski‘s J’Accuse, Asghar Farhadi‘s A Separation, Bennett Miller‘s Moneyball, Kathryn Bigelow‘s Zero Dark Thirty, Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave, Kenneth Lonergan‘s Manchester By The Sea, Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name, Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square, Paul Schrader‘s First Reformed, Kent Jones‘ Diane, David O. Russell‘s Silver Linings Playbook, PLUS The Irishman, Son of Saul, Leviathan, Joker, The Square, Moneyball, The Lighthouse, 12 Years A Slave, Dunkirk.

Best of 2019: The Irishman, Joker, Les Miserables, The Lighthouse, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, 1917, Marriage Story, Bombshell, Parasite, The Farewell (10).

Best of 2018: Roma, Green Book, First Reformed, Cold War, Hereditary, Capernaum, Vice, Happy As Lazzaro, Filmworker, First Man, Widows, Sicario — Day of the Soldado. (12).

Best of 2017: Call Me By Your Name, Dunkirk, Lady Bird, The Square, War For The Planet of the Apes, mother!, The Florida Project. (7)

Best of 2016: Manchester By The Sea, A Bigger Splash, La La Land, The Witch, Eye in the Sky, The Confirmation, The Invitation. (6)

Best of 2015: Spotlight, The Revenant; Mad Max: Fury Road; Beasts of No Nation; Love & Mercy, Son of Saul; Brooklyn; Carol, Everest, Ant-Man; The Big Short. (10)

Best of 2014: Birdman, Citizen Four, Leviathan, Gone Girl, Boyhood, Locke, Wild Tales. (7)

Best of 2013: The Wolf of Wall Street, 12 Years A Slave, Inside Llewyn Davis, Her, Dallas Buyers Club, Before Midnight, The Past, Frances Ha (8).

Best of 2012: Zero Dark Thirty, Silver Linings Playbook, Amour, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Barbara, The Grey, Moonrise Kingdom (7).

Best of 2011 (ditto): A Separation, Moneyball, Drive, Contagion, X-Men: First Class, Attack the Block (6).

Best of 2010: The Social Network, The Fighter, Black Swan, Inside Job, Let Me In, A Prophet, Animal Kingdom, Rabbit Hole, The Tillman Story, Winter’s Bone (10).

Hey, maybe Ehrlich is 100% right!

Nia DaCosta‘s reimagining of Henrik Ibsen‘s “Hedda Gabler” is set in the present, and among mostly white “swells” (a term that absolutely no one uses these days), and is sorta kinda lezzy as far as Tessa Thompson‘s titular character is concerned.

In 1891 Ibsen’s Gabler was newly married and bored, trapped in a flush marriage and a house that she didn’t want. In DaCosta’s film Nina Hoss‘s supporting character, Eileen Lovborg, is Hedda’s object of desire.

Woked-up Hedda was shot in early ’24, an eon ago in cultural terms, but the progressive feminist ethos (i.e., almost all men are dull, oppressive shits and women need to be free to muff-dive) has since turned and the wealthy sapphic thing….well, okay but right now girl-on-girl action isn’t as exciting and crackling-with-possibility, social-signpost-wise, as it seemed to be when droolin’ Joe Biden was president. Wokeys are in retreat, searching for tall grass…everyone hates them now. Life never stands still…a constantly moving train.

DaCosta did her career no favors with 2023’s The Marvels, but we all need to re-invent ourselves from time to time.

Hedda premiered last night in Toronto. It will have a token theatrical release on 10.22, and will begin streaming on Amazon Prime Video a week later (10.29)

I wanted to get to Copenhagen early (as in tonight) so I’d have a day and a half to get a fresh new passport as well as a brand-new bank card before my returning flight to JFK.

Tonight’s 8:05 pm SAS flight from Milano Malpensa to Copenhagen had several unbooked seats, I was told, but the desk agents said they couldn’t break the rules so I’m crashing this evening in the Malpensa-adjacent commune of Ferno.

A nice, friendly little rooming house. The landlady, a good soul, drove out and picked me up at Malpensa…an extra 20 euros.

In the old days they would let you fly standby on a try-your-luck, catch-as-catch-can basis, if you wanted to leave earlier for whatever reason…no longer. I would have those catch-as-catch-can days again.

A medieval church bell began ringing this morning at 7:30 am….wonderful.

Malpensa airport is a long way from Milan — 49 kilometers or 30 miles. The so-called “Malpensa Express” lops and chugs along like a freight train…no hurry. And the ride takes an hour! Malpensa is a little bit closer to the southern tip of George Clooney‘s Lake Como than it is to Milan.

Just because I failed to post a review of Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard‘s Broken English doesn’t mean I wasn’t won over and in fact melted down. I caught a late-night screening at the Venice Film Festival, and have been thinking about it — warmly — ever since. It’s not a typical shake-and-bake summary of a pop star…a quirky individualist who seemed to live by the light of camera flashbulbs and was, for a certain period, a radiant, raspy-voiced pop poet and vocal stylist. I can’t wait to see it again.

This is generally true of feral reactionary racists, MAGA loyalists, sensible Average Joes and deranged woke fanatics alike, but thank God for that 3% who’ve been touched by God or vague inspiration or something greater than themselves…call them the clear light contingent.

HE commenter Howard Beale is certainly not among the CLCs. He is sadly a DWF, and I’m this effing close to booting his sick ass. A confirmed hater…spewer of venom.

In the fall of ’88 I had an experience similar to Alec Guinness‘s, as described below by Peter Ustinov. It happened in either Cork or Limerick, and it involved an Irish policeman and a parking infraction.

I was standing near our rental car when a friendly uniformed cop approached and asked if the car was mine. Yes, I said. “Well, I’m only askin’ because it’s parked in a red zone”, the cop said in a gentle Irish brogue, “and you might wanna think about movin’ it before too long, as you’ll probably get a parking ticket if you don’t.” I thanked him and promptly parked the rental elsewhere…no sweat. It was easily the most pleasant encounter with a parking cop in my entire life.

And Alexander Payne‘s jury has blown off The Testament of Ann Lee‘s Amanda Seyfried…no Best Actress Volpi Cup! All the hipster handicappers had her taking it…the “Seyfried, Seyfried, Seyfried” drumbeat could be heard up and down the Lido.

Jim Jarmusch‘s Father Mother Sister Brother is easily his weakest, least nourishing film ever, which is why Cannes Film Festival topper Thierry Fremaux declined to debut it four months ago.

All I can figure is that Payne’s jury decided to give Jarmusch the top Venice award as a “you go, bruh” neck-massage thing…”don’t let Fremaux ratttle you, Jim…take solace in our love and respect.”

I thought The Voice of Hind Rajab, a devastating, anti-Israel docudrama that generated emotional tsunamis whenever it screened, would take the Golden Lion for sure, but assuaging Jarmusch’s ego was a more important thing.

Benny Safdie‘s helming of The Smashing Machine won the Best Director prize fair and square…he did a good job, went for the deep-down stuff.