Do you want to feel momentarily depressed? Just for a couple of minutes, I mean? In Contention‘s Kris Tapley believes that Departures, a Japanese-produced nominee for Best Foreign Language Film, is “waiting in the wings to upset” — i.e., may take the Best Foreign Language Oscar from Waltz With Bashir.

Maybe. Not having seen Departures (i.e., nobody ever offered me a screening or a screener) I’m hardly in a position to speak about quality or the odds or anything else, although I’ll be flabbergasted if Bashir loses. But listen to Tapley’s description of Departures and ask yourself if this is really the sort of thing that people might prefer to vote for.

“It’s a beautiful film in a lot of ways,” Kris begins. “Certainly not a more artistic achievement than Waltz With Bashir but the kind of soft, safe, solid work that tends to take out the frontrunner in this category time and again.” In other words, it’s a Salieri movie and what the hell, people have shown a soft spot for the old Salieri brand around Oscar time so who knows, maybe it’ll win.

“It deals with death in a really affecting way, at once eerie, humorous and, ultimately, moving,” Kris continues. “When it threatens to pass into trite territory, it finds a way to stay fresh and alive, very human and absolutely satisfying.” Trust me — when a guy like Kris observes that a film in question “threatens to pass into trite territory,” he’s politely saying that it fucking steps into the trite swamp for a bit — period, underline, boldface.

Does Bashir flirt with trite? Uhhm, no. Does it dabble in trite for even a minute or so, glancingly, in and out before you know it? No. Then why are we talking about a film with slight traces of trite stuck to its shoe soles…why are we even talking about that film overtaking a majestic accomplishment like Waltz With Bashir?

A less-than-fully-illuminated HE reader concurrently named “FearDread” and “Imogen De Wynter” wrote this morning announcing that “the first legit Watchmen review is up on the Huffington Post.” Let it never be said that Hollywood Elsewhere has it in for Watchmen, at least to the extent that I won’t post friendly descriptions of it.

Mike Ragogna

The review’s author, however, is a guy named Mike Ragogna. “In the music business since his teens, Mike Ragogna has been a singer, songwriter, guitarist, keyboardist, producer, arranger and even a songplugger,” the bio reads. “He’s worked on projects ranging from those by Joni Mitchell, Ringo Starr, Burt Bacharach,Toby Keith, Aerosmith, Cher, Sublime and Al Green.”

The “g” is silent in his last name, I’m presuming, so you pronounce it “Ragohnya” like lasagna.

I wrote FrearDread/Imogen De Winter right back and said, “Legit? The guy’s a music industry this-and-thatter — musician, session man, entertainment writer, fringe player. He once worked for Cher. Worse than that, he uses an apostrophe when spelling the possessive ‘its’. What is it that makes him a legit film critic exactly? Help me out.”

And FearDread wrote back with the following: “He writes for the Huffington Post, a highly respected website. The other review you ran [i.e., Matt Selman‘s fanboy riff] originated on the website for Time, a national magazine. These were positive reviews. The negative reviews you have run were anonymous, unsourced and would be thrown out of any court of law in the land. I thought you were a journalist. This kind of behavior wouldn’t get a pass on the National Enquirer.”

To which I responded, “Slow down, Bambi. Matt Selman is a dug-in Simpsons exec producer, a vested industry relationshipper go-alonger and my idea of an ignoble reviewer. And almost anyone with a semi-legit job or position or connection with the right friend can post an opinion piece on the Huffington Post. And by the way, the National Enquirer has delivered some solid reporting here and there and broken more than a few hot stories, including one that legit media types wouldn’t touch until they were forced to — i.e., the John Edwards extramarital affair scandal.

On top of which “the first Watchmen review I ran came from a stone professional who toils for a major media organization, and I’m not going to be goaded by the likes of you into divulging his name and affiliation. The second review-writer is just a guy, but I know him somewhat, he definitely saw the film, he’s obviously intelligent, he obviously knows how to write, knows film, knows the Watchmen graphic novel, and so on. I fail to see the lack of legitimacy.”

Pedro Almodovar‘s Broken Embraces opens in Spain on March 18th, less than four weeks hence. (So why isn’t there a Spanish-language website?) And it will certainly play in Cannes less than three months hence. Watching it in the Grand Lumiere will surely be another variation on your basic holy-moley Pedro penetration experience. How could it not be?

The Coming Soon guys have this description posted: “Broken Embraces is a four-way tale of amour-fou, shot in the style of ’50s American film noir at its most hard-boiled, and will mix references to works like Nicholas Ray‘s In a Lonely Place and Vincente Minnelli‘s The Bad and the Beautiful, with signature Almodovar themes such as fate, the mystery of creation, guilt, unscrupulous power, the eternal search of fathers for sons, and sons for fathers.”

The “f” in “Fate” was capitalized but I de-capitalized it. Fate rules the universe, but it shouldn’t be flattered or rewarded with a capital F. Fate is something to be dodged, outfoxed, blown off, gotten around, stepped over, ignored, made a joke of.

“He is a genius. He writes the most incredible roles for women. In this one, ‘Broken Embraces,’ I am an actress playing two roles, one comedy, one drama, one real-life, one the movie she is making. A movie-within-a-movie. It’s complex, mind-blowing. I am so lucky to have him in my life.” — Penelope Cruz speaking about Broken Embraces.

The sound on this clip is weak, but the words that Laurence Olivier spoke when he accepted his Lifetime Achievement Oscar in 1979 — classy, precisely described and deeply felt, his emotional pores wide open — has never left my memory. I also vividly recall Jon Voight putting his hand to his head and going “whoa!” after Olivier finished. That’s something only an open-hearted liberal does. Voight, as we all know, has let that part of himself go.

There’s something I’ve learned in all my years of banging out columns. The less you have to write about, the more personal and engaging the copy tends to be. (Mostly.) Which is why I love David Carr”s Oscar season jottings. Most or much of the time he’s not writing about much. Gut feelings, intuitions, moods, what ifs, why nots, hairs on the back of his neck, lower-back scratchings and so on. And he’s really good at it. Got that, Timothy Noah, a.k.a. “Mr. Chatterbox”?

This Syracuse junior I know sounded pretty good co-hosting a music, talk and weather-reporting radio show yesterday. I’m a little prejudiced, yeah, but he’s pretty good anyway. Loose, spirited, fun attitude. Here’s an excerpt.

“In an industry that insists that most actresses remain giggly, pliable and princessy well into middle age, Kate Winslet has somehow avoided that pigeonhole entirely. She doesn’t play girls; she never really has. She plays women. Unsentimentalized, restless, troubled, discontented, disconcerted, difficult women. And clearly, it’s working for her.” — from Mark Harris‘s Time cover story on the (very) likely Best Actress Oscar winner. Warning: Winslet may not convey shock or surprise at the podium. And no hyperventilating. No offense but we’ve had enough of that — thanks.

I’m not aware of a single Manhattan Oscar-viewing party…not one. Not that it matters very much. I guess I’m saying I became accustomed to all the free booze and abundant food and friendly-ass socializing back in Los Angeles. A different deal here on the hard streets. Yesterday Nikki Finke posted a list of everything happening in Los Angeles between now and next Sunday.

Film Jerk‘s annual series of Oscar Handicap articles are now online, starting with Best Picture.

From a purely spitballed perspective, what are the most likely 2009 Best Picture contenders at this point in time? Precious few. The only Coming Soon December releases that look like remote possibilities include James Cameron‘s Avatar, Peter Jackson‘s The Lovely Bones and Clint Eastwood‘s rugby-themed Mandela movie.

The only November release that may have a reasonable (but by no means certain) shot is Rob Marshall‘s Nine. There’s nothing at all in the October rundown right now.

There’s also — just blindly speculating — Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu‘s Biutiful,which has no release date and may not be seen until 2010. It’ll costar Javier Bardem and Ruben Ochandiano.

One thing’s for sure: An Education‘s Carey Mulligan will be in the running for Best Actress.

Review this Playlist piece from last month called “The 60 Most Anticipated Films of 2009” and you’ll see damn few comers.

It’s way early, all kinds of exciting manifestations are waiting in the wings and you obviously can’t tell anything at this stage, but you’d be hard put to call ’09 an exciting-looking year at this stage.

Among Esquire.com’s Alternative Oscar salutations, which were posted earlier today. Actually there are only three that got me.

(a) The most moving monologue of the year delivered by Jean Claude van Damme in JCVD, to wit: “When you’re 13, you believe in your dream. Well, it came true for me. But I still ask myself today what I’ve done on this earth. Nothing! I’ve done nothing!”

(b) Best Profane Dialogue from In Bruges, from a conversation between an Irish assassin (Brendan Gleeson) and his gangster boss (Ralph Fiennes).

Ken [Gleeson]: “Harry, let’s face it. And I’m not being funny. I mean no disrespect, but you’re a cunt. You’re a cunt now, and you’ve always been a cunt. And the only thing that’s going to change is that you’re going to be an even bigger cunt. Maybe have some more cunt kids.” Harry [Fiennes, furious]: “Leave my kids fucking out of it! What have they done? You fucking retract that bit about my cunt fucking kids!” Ken: “I retract that bit about your cunt fucking kids.” Harry: “Insult my fucking kids? That’s going overboard, mate!” Ken: “I retracted it, didn’t I?”

(c) Best piece of clothing — the white gloves in Funny Games. “The plain white gloves worn by the sadistic neighbors conjure at once the cruel indifference of butlers, scientists, and the guy who puts the ball back on the table in professional snooker. Those gloves say more about the human condition than the entire wardrobe of Sex and the City.”

I’m not so sure about the white gloves, now that I’ve thought a bit more about it.

Several years ago film historian Ron Haver raised a point about the Skull Island wall in the original King Kong (’33) that was so fundamental that it had been ignored for decades. Why, Haver asked, did the natives build a huge gate in the wall that was big enough to allow 30-foot tall apes and dinosaurs to walk through?

I have a similar-type question about John Ford‘s relentless use of Monument Valley as a backdrop in his westerns, particularly his use of it in The Searchers. Why are people there in the first place? There was no reason at all for settler types to live there in the old days because MV is a 100% worthless area for farming and cattle-raising. No rivers for trade, no railroads, no cottage industry of any kind. It’s just scenery.

The dry typography tells you there’s not much in the way of rainfall. There don’t seem to be any rivers or lakes nearby. There’s no grass for cattle herds to feed upon. One look tells you there’s no nutritious soil to grow crops with. There was no such thing as tourism in the settler days. The only settler-sustaining industry of any kind was uranium mining, which reportedly happened between 1948 and 1967.

And yet decade after decade film monks have been praising the John Ford Monument Valley westerns without so much as mentioning — not once! — the absolute idiocy of anyone living in such an environment during the 1800s or early 1900s. The reason for this willful logical shutdown is that Monument Valley is infused with such a tremendous sense of myth and grandeur that it’s regarded by film buffs as a kind of spiritual cathedral.

Every time I watch The Searchers, I ask myself “what the fuck are all those settlers doing there? What’s the damn point?”