He had a secondary role in the eminently forgettable “Haywire,” which I mentioned in passing either last week or the week before.

Ah, but this weekend, it vas all Fassbender all zuh time. He was intense and compelling as Brandon in the psychological study “Shame.” And he played Carl Jung in the dialog-heavy “A Dangerous Method.”

Here’s a more clinical analysis of these two mature films.

That’s the question. The answer depends on whether you thought the decision which handed the presidency to George W. Bush over Al Gore was legit or not? Or your marker may be Roe vs. Wade. Which is to say the Court is as political as ever, though by constitutional edict, it is a separate entity from the president and congress and, with its lifetime appointments, is theoretically above the fray.

Anyway, it’s here to stay — FDR’s attempts to change its structure notwithstanding. As it has been since February 1, 1790. Chief Justice John Jay pounded the gavel at the Royal Exchange Building on Broad Street in NYC. (Isn’t that near Wall Street? Coincidence? You decide.)

Jay’s fellow justices that day were John Rutledge, William Cushing, John Blair, Robert Harrison and James Wilson.

* * * * *

Remember that flick — and its sequels — in which Ben Stiller is a male nurse, who marries retired government operative Robert DeNiro’s daughter. Ever suspicious and to make sure Stiller’s a man of high moral repute, DeNiro requires his future son-in-law to take a lie detector test.

Ah yes, the lie detector, officially known as a polygraph, is a strange creature. Reliable? Or not? Court systems around the land have always been skeptical. Because, well, how does one work?

On February 2, 1935, in Portage, Wisconsin, a fellow by the name of Leonard Keeler used one of these contraptions for the first time.

Crime novels and detective flicks haven’t been the same since.

The game went to overtime. Under the league’s rules, first team to score wins, without the other squad having an an opportunity to tie it up. Denver got the ball. First play, Tebow throws an 80 yard TD pass to beat Pittsburgh.

The OT went just seconds, long enough for the snap, the Tebow dropback, a look downfield, the toss and Demaryius Thomas’ scamper to the endzone.

Boom. Game over.

Well now I know how the Steelers felt.

I shan’t repeat all the details of the smackdown this past Wednesday noon to see if I or a friend had the better and correct solution to turning off another pal’s closed captioning, which visual impediment was driving his significant other nuts. You can read the details here.

Suffice it to say, I should have been wary when “Milt” showed up with an iPad, something he’s never done at any previous one of our regular weekly lunches. Silly me. The guy, it turns out, had spent the better part of two days, surfing the web for the solution. Which he apparently found at some obscure blog site.

He won the coin flip.

In 71 seconds flat, he had the TV screen clear of the nettlesome text. Had he not been explaining his process to the other two of us while pressing buttons, he would have completed the task in well less than a minute.

Sigh. What a bitter and ignominious defeat.

Had I spent my advance time, researching my solution instead of regaling you, my loyal public, with the details of this significant battle, I might have been better served. Then again, the luck of the coin flip sealed my doom.

I shan’t bore you with the solution’s details. If you desire them, email me and I’ll reveal the skewed method necessary to turn closed captioning on and off with one of those HD cable boxes. Or I may simply forward to request on to my conqueror.

Until then, I’ll be tending to my wounds. If there’s enough balm?

I’ll call them Dale and Milt, because, well, those are close enough but not their real names.

They are as past the dawn of their dotage as I am. Which means that none of us hears very well.

I know the exact moments when my hearing went from good to not so good at all, at least in my right ear. During the summer of ’70, I thought it a boffo idea to stand right in front of the massive set of speakers at the Atlanta Pop Festival, while the Chambers Brothers were doing an extended version of “Time.”

The diminution of auditory acuity settled into a permanent state several months later during a Grand Funk Railroad concert, at a moment in rock history when such big guitar outfits prided themselves on their ability to generate deafening decibels.

I cannot speak for the genesis of my lunch pals’ conditions. But can say there are times when our lunch table resembles one of those Saturday Night Live skits about the hearing impaired. (Not that such condition is something to be taken lightly.)

At any rate, because of his acceptance of his condition, Dale’s TV at home has closed captioning set to the “ON” position. Which is all well and good, but for one small thing. It apparently drives his usually understanding significant other to serious distraction when she’s watching by herself. And neither has been able to figure out how to turn it off.

I believe Dale may have called the cable company, but to no avail. He’s brought the subject up continually during our weekly get togethers. Much to the chagrin of Milt and I, who would prefer, on occasion, discussion of other matters.

By the strangest coincidence, Tuesday a week ago, I went to run on my elliptical machine at home. When I turned on the TV it faces, Closed Captioning was ON. I have no idea how it happened. And my better half denies being the culprit, though she admits she often starts hitting buttons on the clicker, because . . . well . . . because she can.

Fortunately I was able, in a matter of seconds, find the path to turn it off. Which I did. The next day, I regaled my lunch mates with that techno epiphany, taking the position that the solution to Dale’s dilemma was on his TV clicker, not the one to his cable box. Immediately, or perhaps sooner, Milt went into House of Commons back bench mode, harrumphing at my position, toward which he was and remains vehemently opposed.

So, we set up a smackdown.

Tomorrow, instead of eating at one of Louisville’s many fine lunch spots, we are gathering at Dale’s to see which theorist proves correct? Milt says he can get the closed captioning off, using the cable clicker. I say, I can do it with the TV clicker.

I proposed rules for the battle. Flip a coin. Winner gets ten minutes to fix the problem. If he fails, other guy gets ten minutes. Etc, etc, until a solution appears, or we both admit defeat. Kind of like, college football overtime. Unless, of course, the first guy gets it done. Which, I suppose, makes it more like NFL OT.

Dale, who only wants the closed captioning off so that there will be peace in his hacienda, thought the rules legit and fair. (He’s even springing for lunch.) Milt, not so much Despite ongoing negotiations between his people and mine, we have not settled on process.

Tomorrow, Wednesday 1/25 noon, is set for click off.

May the best man, hopefully me, win.

I’ll report back on the results, even if defeated.

Which film, as you probably know, has already garnered any number of awards, including three from the new major playah in Hollywoodland, the Foreign Movie Press. A/K/A the Golden Globes.

So I guess it’s kinda neat but, well, not that big of a deal. Besides all this introductory blather is really of little consequence, since I also review a movie, which has almost totally slipped from my memory already, and I just saw it yesterday. That would be Steven Soderbergh’s “Haywire.” Yawn.

Anyhow, as I opine in the soon to be linked radio review of “The Artist,” the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences likes nothing better than to honor itself. Thus, “The Artist” and my previously reviewed “Hugo,” both of which are love letters to the movies, are going to go home with some statuettes.

Anyhow, here’s the link. Listen for yourself, or forever hold your peace.

On January 25, 1533, he entered into a hallowed state of matrimony with Anne Boleyn. (Years later, in 1540 to be exact, he would tie the knot with Anne of Cleaves.)

For those keeping score at home, Ms. Boleyn was HVIII’s second wife. Catherine of Aragon was his first. Boleyn provided the King with an heir to the throne, who became rather famous herself, Elizabeth I.

But, as you must surmise by now, Henry VIII soon tired of Anne Boleyn, accusing her of philandering and banishing her to the Tower of London, which was not, it is reported, a bucolic vacation spot. Eventually it was off with her head.

Wife #3 was not the above mentioned Anne of Cleaves, but Jane Seymour. I know it is difficult to keep track.

* * * * *

It is true that the 18th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, prohibiting the sale of alcoholic beverages, was not passed until 1917, taking effect in 1919, for a short and ill-fated run of 14 years.

Prohibition was a long time coming. The temperance movement started in the early 19th century.

It was on January 26, 1838, that the bible thumping state of Tennessee became the first to outlaw the consumption of demon rum. Anyone found guilty of drinking “spirituous liqueurs” could be fined at the discretion of the sitting magistrate, which funds were to be used for educational purposes. (It is doubtful however that tailgaters in Knoxville before football games were charged, though I have read no official reports.)

The movement that began in Big Orange Country obviously did little to stop consumption, or to stop the promulgation of laws in an attempt to stop consumption.

Who am I to disagree?

Actually it was the singular theme in film last year, about which I’ve been harping for awhile.

So, today, on my weekly radio film review gig, instead of milking five minutes worth of shtick about Marky Mark in “Contraband” — which both the Film Babe and I liked — I decided to visit once again those worthy performances referenced by Ms. Streep.

Listen up