There’s no business like show business. Actually, I think there’s at least a couple businesses in which clueless narcissists and incompetent money men make fools of themselves both privately and professionally for the viewing pleasure of the masses, but perhaps none in environs so strenuous as Hollywood. Yes, the men and women behind the movies have to kill themselves in cutthroat work so contentious you might even say it’s . . . murder. At least that’s the case for the characters of The Player, a 1992 film directed by Robert Altman and based on the book by Michael Tolkin (no relation). This part noir, part comedy, part satirical sendup of what goes on behind the behind the scenes of moviemaking was a critical hit and awards darling thanks to its slick production and frequent celebrity cameos which haven’t aged poorly in any way whatsoever, and now aims for the most prestigious of awards: a kind word from Magellans at the Movies. But will the movie land a cushy, five picture contract in the hearts of our hosts, or will it receive nothing but a vague gesture towards a followup sometime in the next six months? If you don’t want to find out, keep it to yourself!

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