So much of Alexander Payne’s recent work, and some of the older, practically fetishizes male self-pity: Sons putting up with crotchety elders, as in Nebraska; middle-aged men finally deigning to reckon with the fact that they haven’t been so great in the husband or dad department, a la The Descendants; depressed wine snobs behaving unbearably yet earning the love of smart, beautiful women—I’m looking at you, Sideways.