Certain TIFF journos were invited to attend a showing of five or six scenes from Theodore Melfi‘s Hidden Figures (20th Century Fox, 12.25 limited, 1.13.17 wide), and I must say that I’m more jazzed about seeing this fact-based tale than before. Each scene was about the three NASA mathematicians (Taraji P. Henson as Katherine Johnson, Octavia Spencer as Dorothy Vaughan, Janelle Monáe as Mary Jackson) dealing tactfully with early ’60s racism, sexism and frowning office politics. Monae had the best scene — she may be the big standout. It seemed clear that the screenplay (by Melfi and Allison Schroeder) will be sharp and snappy, and that the performances will touch bottom. You can also tell Kevin Costner will nail his role of a senior NASA bossman. The teaser that popped in mid-August presented lighter, funnier, more romantic content (i.e., stuff basically aimed at the dumbasses). Today’s footage was aimed at people like myself — more about science and discrimination and how truly gifted these women were, both cerebrally and emotionally.

Lisa Taback & Associates publicist Albert Tello prior to today’s Hidden Figures concert, which was briefly rained upon.

(l. to r.) Hidden Figures stars Janelle Monae, Octavia Spencer, Taraji P. Henson, composer Pharell Williams, producer Jenno Topping, TIFF honcho Cameron Bailey during post-screening discussion.

Posted on 9.9.16 by Esquire‘s Stephen Marche:

Posted by yours truly on 10.16.15:

The more time you spend in the company of humans and particularly stupid, under-educated, Fox-following Americans, the more fully you understand there’s almost no limit to which the lowest specimens can and do descend. If anything Hillary Clinton understated the truth about a significant sector of Donald Trump supporters. Everybody gets this. Ask any Republican insider after a couple of drinks — they all know the conservative “base” is largely composed of devolved lowlifes, animals, the dregs. And yet in public, the right is obliged to go apeshit over Hillary’s remark.

Unhappy wives are always looking to go to couples therapy when things aren’t working, and when that doesn’t pan out they’re always looking to get divorced so they can claim their chance at happiness before it’s too late. Unhappily married guys mostly turn sullen and withdraw into private realms, drinking or hanging with pals or becoming workaholics or delving into cheating or porn sites…anything to avoid “facing the problem” because it’s almost certainly unsolvable. Who in any case would want to stay married to Sarah Jessica Parker with her 40ish horse-face and ultra-fickle, high-maintenance personality? (SJP always seems to be playing variations of her Family Stone character.) Thomas Haden Church needs to lose the moustache. HBO’s comedy series, debuting on 10.10, was created by Irish/British comedienne/writer Sharon Horgan (Catastrophe). Costarring Molly Shannon, Talia Balsam and Tracy Letts.

You can tell right away that Terry George‘s The Promise, a World War I-era drama that blends a romantic triangle with the Armenian genocide, has been handsomely captured by Spanishg dp Javier Aguirresarobe. Right away you want Charlotte le Bon to end up with Oscar Isaac, portraying a medical student, rather than burly Christian Bale, as an American journalist. Bale isn’t the romantic type — he’s always about his moods and his quirks, especially when he’s put on a little weight. I’m trying to think of an established star who’s more of a “doesn’t get the girl” type. He’s about strangeness, weirdness, pot bellies, beards, temper tantrums, glaring expressions, etc. George’s film screens at TIFF tomorrow (i.e., Sunday).

Those tightly-tailored suits with pegged, ankle-length pants and no socks have been around since 2013 or thereabouts. Last May I noticed a tuxedo version in a Cannes men’s store display. But until last night I hadn’t spotted any brand-name actors sporting this get-up, which you can’t wear unless you’re trim and under 40 with a Hitler youth undercut. Ewan MacGregor was wearing a biege-colored one during last night’s premiere and after-party for American Pastoral, and a friend said David Oyelowo was wearing a tight-ass blue suit without socks during some gathering for A United Kingdom, which was killed, by the way, in a 9.9 review by Variety‘s Peter Debruge. Remember the loafers-with-no-socks thing from the early to mid ’80s?

If MacGregor’s suit was well tailored (and it was), why weren’t they tailored to embrace his crotch? Look at that blowsy tailoring! The pants are cut below his balls a good two or three inches.

Last night I caught Ewan MacGregor‘s American Pastoral (Lionsgate, 10.21), a handsome and concise adaptation of Philip Roth’s 1997 family-tragedy novel, and came away relatively pleased, or at least placated. To me it felt straight and unfettered and emotionally upfront, but at the same time not overbearing. And with the exception of Dakota Fanning‘s occasionally whispery, hard-to-understand dialogue the performances (MacGregor in the lead role of Seymour “Swede” Levov plus Jennifer Connelly, Rupert Evans, Valorie Curry and Peter Reigert) struck me as specific, rounded and believable.

I was sorry to read Andrew Barker’s pan in Variety but TheWrap‘s Steve Pond is roughly on the same page as myself.

I should admit to a certain familiarity with the project as Pastoral was developed for many years by director Phillip Noyce (director of Salt, Rabbit-Proof Fence, Clear and Present Danger), whom I’m friendly with, along with screenwriter John Romano. I was surprised when Noyce bailed on the project after so many years of investment, but I have to admit that MacGregor, a first-timer, has done a better-than-decent job at bringing this sad tale to life. To me the film feels clean, well honed, reasonably arresting.

An episodic, middle-class tragedy, Pastoral focuses on the anguish and confusion felt by a New Jersey businessman (MacGregor) when his daughter (Fanning) becomes a violent, bomb-detonating Weatherman in the late ’60s. Romano’s eloquent screenplay is the most stirring aspect, I suppose, although I was also taken with with the handsome cinematography by Martin Ruhe (Control, Harry Brown). Pastoral pulses with what struck me as a kind of natural, unforced authenticity, and I’m saying this as a former New Jersey guy who once knew the lay of the land.

I was especially struck by a very brief lower Manhattan image that shows the World Trade Center towers as they appeared in ’71 or thereabouts, unfinished with the brown steel beams still exposed.

“A virtuoso feat of indiscriminate gunplay from director Ben Wheatley — who is, without a doubt, the most exciting thing to hit British genre cinema since Guy Ritchie, minus the latter’s eagerness to sell out — the cartoonishly over-the-top Free Fire crosses the irreverent cheekiness of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs with the ruthless spirit of 1970s B-movies, in which audiences hoped for a few minutes of what Free Fire sustains for the better part of 90 minutes.” — from Peter Debruge’s 9.9 Variety review.

After High Rise, anything from Wheatley is a must-see. But many of the hot TIFF movies are slotted right against each other over the first couple of days, and so you naturally miss a good portion of them. Free Fire had its first showing at the Ryerson on Thursday midnight (no way) followed by two press screenings yesterday morning (my Nocturnal Animals viewing prevented me from attending both). I’ll catch it next Wednesday at 12:15 pm.