It usually takes about 15 minutes into an interview to discover whether it will be a chore or a sincere sensation. Capote director Bennett Miller had me before the salad.

Mr. Miller was in town to accept the Best Director Award from the San Diego Film Critics, who once again held their annual luncheon at the Prado restaurant. Tall and lanky with a devilish glint in his eye, Miller had the presence of a man who wanted to be exactly where he was: accepting an award for his artistry.

It had been a long time between films for Bennett Miller. In 1998, he directed his first feature, The Cruise, an affectionate documentary about an extraordinarily grating subject: New York tour guide Timothy “Speed” Levitch, whose annoyance quotient ranks somewhere ahead of Roger Rabbit’s.

“It is finally coming out on DVD in a couple of weeks,” Miller proudly proclaimed. Since 9/11, Miller has noticed a sense of walled-in behavior coming from fellow New Yorkers. In our safety-conscious age, guided tour busses like the one Levitch commandeered have become all but extinct.

“I’m surprised that it took so long for the film to come out on DVD,” he said, and paused to re-calibrate his soft-spoken voice. “Not that I am trying to sell it as nostalgia, but there are a couple of shots that show the World Trade Center and how it was – almost innocent – and I hope the film will be viewed as a celebration.”

The film received great notices (the San Diego Union-Tribune’s David Elliott named it his favorite film of the year) and achieved instant cult status. “Over the next four years, I must have read literally a thousand scripts, and couldn’t find one I wanted to make until Capote,” Miller said. While awaiting a return to the big screen, Miller directed numerous TV commercials.

After swapping pleasantries at the no-host bar, the friendly gathering took their seats at the Prado for lunch and accolades. Also on hand to receive awards were Howl’s Moving Castle producer Ned Lott and Oscar Torres, co-screenwriter of Innocent Voices, which picked up the best foreign film prize. Not surprisingly, no one from King Kong, the SDFC’s choice for picture of the year, was on hand. But the biggest shocker of the afternoon (other than a respectable group voting Kong best anything) had nothing to do with celebrating film.

I received a call the day before the awards to alert me that Miller was bringing a guest. Since it was my honored task to present him with an elegant, onyx blue trophy, I was given a heads up that his “date” was America’s worst nightmare, Courtney Love. Why the concern? Did the group fear a lipstick-smeared train wreck may actually liven up the otherwise staid proceedings? Could it be that a loose cannon like myself might accidentally slip and utter something to insult Ms. Love? Short of “George Bush is Christ,” what could I possibly say to trample her sensibilities? Perhaps they feared that she was on the short list of people I’d never want to see, let alone meet.

When coming face to face with an admired celebrity, something director François Truffaut once said about preferring to watch Citizen Kane rather than dining with Orson Welles comes to mind. There is always that slight fear that the artist might not live up to their art. Not only do I enjoy Ms. Love’s music, but her performance in The People vs. Larry Flynt showed a surprising emotional range. In spite of her radiating sophistication in a tight, low-cut black dress (that reminded me my tires needed inflating), the gathering seemed to pretend she wasn’t there. It didn’t take a genius to state the obvious, and that’s where I came in.

When I noted that she did her finest work opposite Howard Stern and on Comedy Central’s roast of Pamela Anderson, her laughter became uncomfortable. “As prickly as Howard was, nothing prepared me for that fucking three-hour-and-18-minute roast,” she said. “After being away for five years, everybody wanted to talk to me – Barbara Walters, Oprah, ‘The Today Show’ – and I turned them all down. I was at a point where the only real friend I had in the business was Pamela Anderson, so I agreed to do it.”

The roast was as funny as it was brutal. Sarah Silverman was delighted to see Love in attendance because, “I left my crack in my other purse.” Acid-tongued Jeffrey Ross called for “a round of applause for not singing tonight” and noted that Ms. Love looked like the girl next door, “if you happen to live next door to a methadone clinic.” Despite all the vicious haranguing, the one thing I took from the show was Love’s incredible strength. The insults bounced off her like spitballs from a battleship.

Before bringing on the tennis ball chicken, the group paused to reflect upon a pair of insurmountable roadblocks that befell us in 2005. We lost two of our members, Greg Muskewitz, a 23-year-old crazy-in-love filmaholic, and my predecessor at the Gay & Lesbian Times, Kyle Counts.

Before he died, Kyle made arrangements for an annual award to be issued in his honor to the one person who had the strongest impact on film in San Diego. For this year, or any other year, it could not have been bestowed on a worthier recipient: Chris Principio, regional manager for Landmark Theaters, who is quite simply one of the most professional exhibitors it has ever been my pleasure to work with.

I once witnessed Chris gingerly handling a group of hot-headed La Jollans who complained about a lack of seats after arriving 15 minutes late for a sold-out screening. His ability to please while not compromising his theater’s integrity was awe inspiring. Chris was near speechless when the award, the afternoon’s only surprise, was handed to him.

After lunch, Miller, joining us on the veranda, pulled a Camel Light from Courtney’s pack, stuck it behind his ear and deadpanned, “I quit smoking.” In his honor, Courtney and I lit up and the conversation turned to our favorite films.

Miller remembered: “The first movie I ever saw was 2001 on a reissue. That whole thing with Kier Dullea confronting his own death at the end really fucked me up.”

When Miller asked which film I would choose to take to hell with me, Douglas Sirk’s delirious Written on the Wind instantly came to mind. “I hate Sirk,” he said.

Could he possibly be serious, or was he just giving a curmudgeon some friendly grief? “Maybe it was a bad time in my life, but I watched a bunch of his movies several years ago and they did nothing for me,” he added.

Courtney Love made quite an impression with her knowledge of film, particularly the current independent scene. Right now, she’s as high as can be on Zoe Cassavetes, daughter of John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands.

“She’s fucking amazing, but she’s afraid to go out and sell herself,” Love said.

When asked why Ms. Love is not an active player in the industry, her reply came with unflinching frankness: “I guess because I had this five-year problem with crack. Nobody would hire me.”

At the risk of sounding like a house detective or studio public relations man, if she was stimulated by anything other than nicotine or caffeine, it’s news to me. Here stood a woman in total control.

Since Miller is an Oscar nominee, I felt obliged to ask what effect this sudden burst of recognition has had upon him.

“Phil [Seymour Hoffman] and I brought Capote to the Berlin Film Festival,” he said. “After awhile, I looked around and couldn’t find him. He snuck into the back of the theater to watch the audience’s reaction to the film. I saw him walk out the door, and his face was all wet from crying. The film had been with us so long, and it had been some time since either of us had seen it. We forgot about the strong impact it made on the audience, and it really got to us.”

Miller knows full well the prizes and pitfalls associated with an Oscar. What are the chances that a man who sifted through a thousand scripts to unearth one reputable independent voice will find happiness in an industry known for fanning the stench of sequelitis? Capote is as much a story about a gay man in a repressed society as Brokeback Mountain, and if there wasn’t so much illusory bisexuality – and even worse, endless suffering on display – Hollywood would never have given the latter film a second thought.

During his acceptance speech, Miller acknowledged the vague reasoning behind Academy votes: “It is much nicer to be in these warm, intimate surroundings with people who really know, love and appreciate film.”

Before Miller and Love headed off to Legoland, I pointed out – as I must to all men – that Balboa Park acted as a stand-in for Hearst’s castle in Citizen Kane. He couldn’t wait to get out on the Prado to witness it firsthand.

As we said our goodbyes, I received a smearless kiss from Courtney. While shaking Miller’s hand, my eyes lowered as I confided: “I hope you don’t win. You’re too good for that shit.”

Miller, who knew a compliment when he was thrown one, cracked a huge smile and thanked me.