A couple of days ago Awards Daily‘s Ryan Adams posted the new international trailer for David Ayer‘s Fury and wrote that costar Logan Lerman “looks to have the same roller coaster arc as Barry Pepper was given in Saving Private Ryan…a plum supporting role.” Sorry but nope. Lerman is obviously playing a sensitive candy-ass who trembles in the heat of battle (at least initially), and that’s analogous with Jeremy Davies‘ Private Ryan role as the frail, pale-faced translator and not Pepper’s scripture-quoting sharpshooter. I don’t mind the company of delicate dweebs in a real-life setting but they’re a huge drag to deal with in a war film. The Germans are the enemy, delicate weenie boy. Spill their blood. Shoot them in the belly.

That review I ran yesterday of Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy reminded me of a brief encounter I had with Brian Wilson in ’74.

I was living in an upstairs one-bedroom apartment at 648 14th Street in Santa Monica, doing nothing, working as a tree surgeon…my lost period. (I began my adventure in movie journalism the following year.) Right below me lived a guy named Eddie Roach and his wife Tricia. At the time he was working with the Beach Boys as a kind of staff or “touring” photographer. Dennis Wilson fell by two or three times and hung out a bit, and one time I was part of a small group that played touch football with him at a local high-school field. Dennis mocked me that day for being a bad hiker, which I was.

Anyway it was a cloudy Saturday or Sundayafternoon and I was lounging in my living room when I began to hear someone tooling around on Eddie’s piano. It sounded like the beginnings of a song. It began with a thumping, rolling boogie lead-in, complex and grabby, and then the spirited vocal: “Back home boogie, bong-dee-bong boogie…yay-ee-yay…back home boogie, bong-dee-bong”…and then he stopped. One of the chords wasn’t quite right so he played a couple of variations over and over, and then he began again: “”Back home boogie, bong-dee-bong boogie yay-ee-yay!” and so on. Then another mistake and another correction. Then he stopped again and started laughing like a ten year-old drunk on beer: “Hah-hah, heh-heh, heh-hay!” and then right back into the song without losing a beat. It was great stuff. Who is this guy?

In my 9.3 Telluride review I described The Imitation Game as being about (a) “the personal, bureaucratic and old-school morality issues that interfered with and ultimately shut down the beautiful mind of Enigma code-breaker Alan Turing” and (b) “a sad but fascinating tale about the lonely fate of an eccentric, exceptional genius-hero, and how 1940s and ’50s Britain gave him grief every step of the way.”

I didn’t say this at the time but The Imitation Game feels somewhat tedious in this respect. It’s almost entirely about how Turing’s superiors and co-workers didn’t care for his personality. In scene after scene we watch his Bletchley Park colleagues express irritation and disdain about his aloof, superior manner and general lack of social skills. It reminds us of a lesson that we all have to learn and swallow early on, which is that you must be pleasantly sociable with people you work with (or hang or go to school with) because they’ll make your life hell if you’re not.

The sentiments of Turing’s co-workers are basically as follows: “Most people come to realize by the age of 10 or thereabouts that extra-smart, extra-perceptive people lack a certain normality. They tend to be flaky and eccentric and inwardly directed and not very good with telling jokes and schmoozing and flirting and general shoptalk. We, however, are different. We at Bletchley Park do not recognize that brilliant types need to be cut a little slack, and we certainly don’t recognize this in Mr. Turing’s case.

For a fairly long time Muhammad Ali, 72, has been in declining health due to Parkinson’s disease and other ailments. A guy who was so physically dazzling with such a lithe and beautiful mind turned into a withered, slow-moving old man who has trouble speaking. Aging can be torture. I remember when he showed up at the Spirit Awards in ’98 or thereabouts and everyone cheered him with “Ali Boom Ba Yay!” I own a DVD of Ali’s greatest fights, and when I want to go to bed with a smile I always watch his 1974 Zaire championship bout with George Foreman. Works every time. I’m catching a screening of I Am Ali a few days after I return to Los Angeles.

This morning I saw the two Al Pacino films playing at the Toronto Film Festival — David Gordon Green‘s Manglehorn and Barry Levinson‘s The Humbling. And once again Jean-Luc Godard‘s remark about how “every fictional film is a documentary of its actors” came into play. I mainly wanted to see how Pacino, who was 73 when they were shot last year, is coming along. He seems alert and together as far as it goes, but I wish he could just return to being those guys that he was in Heat (i.e., Vincent Hanna) or The Insider (i.e., Lowell Bergman). The Humbling and Manglehorn are meditations about the perils of being an aging, fickle-ego type who’s long since given up on being a good family man or a go-alonger of any kind. Both are saying “if you’ve come this far without a loyal wife or girlfriend or a family to hang with over the holidays then fuck it…just play it like you always have. Enjoy and fulfill as best you can. Otherwise life is short and then you die.”

I liked The Humbling a bit more than Manglehorn because (a) Pacino’s famous-actor character is richer than his Texas Manglehorn locksmith, (b) if it’s a choice between a lonely, low-profile, barely-getting-by septugenarian and a well-known one who drives a nice car and still gets laid every so often, I’m with the latter, (c) HE’s own Greta Gerwig costars as a less-than-ardent lesbian, (d) the fact that Pacino lives in a nicer house in The Humbling (Levinson’s own home in Redding, Connecticut) means that any of the shit that happens is easier to tolerate or process and there’s nothing like nice digs to take the edge off, and (e) The Humbling has a whimsical “life can taste like a fucked bowl of soup but what can you do?” sense of humor. The film is based on a 2009 book by Phillip Roth, and to me that meant…I don’t want to go there.

But I manage to miss stuff regardless. Choices, priorities, stamina, etc. “You don’t beat this festival” — Burt Reynolds in Deliverance. One person, two computers, two cameras, one Red Bull brain, one pair of hands and legs, one pair of lungs…can’t do it all. I missed yesterday afternoon’s big showing of Jennifer Aniston‘s Cake; my next shot is a p & i screening this morning at 10:30 am. Update: Saw about three-quarters of Cake…very good Aniston but who cares about pain management? A bit meh. This morning, to repeat, also includes Manglehorn and The Humbling. A little writing time this afternoon and then we’ll see what develops.

Taken during last night’s rooftop party for Sony Pictures Classic’s Whiplash. I got there, savored the view, took shots. No Damien Chazelle (director) or Miles Teller so I ran over to the next event…sorry.

Mark Hartley, director of Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films, and producer Brett Ratner during last night’s dinner at Barberian’s Steak House. I saw Hartley’s hilarious, fast-paced film in Los Angeles but the embargo didn’t go up until yesterday.

Every year there’s a lead performance or two in an indie-level film that’s so drop-to-your-knees mesmerizing that people like myself throw back the shutters and shout “definitely award-worthy…make room!” (Last year’s contender in this regard was Adele Exarchopolous in Blue Is The Warmest Color.) And every time I blow the horn the cynical, know-it-all Gurus and Gold Derby-ers say “nope…no way, Jose…the distributor either can’t afford or won’t pay for a serious awards campaign, let alone for the services of a Lisa Taback-level campaign strategist…this is a Spirit Awards contender at best.” I spit on that attitude, that corroded way of thinking. Because I’m telling you straight and true that Paul Dano‘s performance as the youngish Brian Wilson in Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy, which I saw this afternoon, is almost spookily great.

Perfectly fattened-up Paul Dano as Brian Wilson in Bill Pohlad’s Love and Mercy.

Wilson’s disturbed spirit hums and throbs in the 30 year-old Dano, who looks like he gained 35 or 40 pounds to play the genius Beach Boy maestro in his mid ’60s blimp period. You can really feel the vibrations and sense the genius-level ferment and the off-balance emotionality. Inwardly and outwardly it’s a stunning, drop-dead transformation and the finest performance of Dano’s career, hands down. It is also, trust me, just as commendable as the other highly-touted, year-end heavyweight performances (including Birdman‘s Michael Keaton, The Theory of Everything‘s Eddie Redmayne, The Imitation Game‘s Benedict Cumberbatch), if not more so. You might be thinking it but don’t you dare dismiss Dano’s performance with a wave of your hand. I know what you’re going to say so don’t even say it. Just shut up.

Not to mention John Cusack also as the 40ish Wilson in the same film, which shifts back and forth between the mid to late ’60s (i.e., the recording of Pet Sounds and Smile) and the mid to late ’80s (i.e., “the Landy years”). Cusack has been on a downturn for the last three or four years, playing ghouls and creeps and psycho killers…my heart aches for the guy. True, he’s had two good roles over the last couple of years — Richard Nixon in The Butler and the husband-masseuse in David Cronenberg‘s Maps to the Stars — but this is a revelation. Cusack plays a gentle but very solemn and intimidated Wilson during the period in which he was under the firm hand of the disreputable Eugene Landy, who died in 2006. (Landy got Wilson to lose weight and get healthier, but at a tremendous price.) Cusack is child-like and Gentle Ben-ish, and as convincing and fully submitted to his task as Dano is to his. For the first time in my moviegoing life I wasn’t bothered by two actors playing the same character — quite a landmark.

It’s a travesty that six years ago some guy mixed remnants of Alex North‘s rejected score for 2001: A Space Odyssey with the “discovery of animal bone as a weapon” sequence. It’s obviously not properly synched, but even so North’s score seems wildly off-pitch. It pulls Kubrick’s film down to earth at every stanza, every measure. It even sounds fucking Spartacus-y at times. Then again it’s probably impossible for any serious fan of this 1968 classic to contemplate the film with any music other than Ligeti‘s space music and Strauss’s “Blue Danube.”

Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young is his snappiest and most commercially appealing film yet. Not as darkly hilarious as Greenberg or as visually ravishing and mood-trippy as Frances Ha, but it’ll be well reviewed and catch on with most under-50 urban sophistos. It’s a nimble, fast-moving, culturally attuned relationship dramedy about a generational chasm (late 20somethings vs. early 40somethings) or more precisely the vague sense of anxiety that somewhat older guys have about younger guys in their field or realm — a fear of being out-hustled or out-clevered and possibly even left behind if they’re not careful. That would be Ben Stiller, a somewhat old-school, gone-stale documentarian who’s fascinated and flattered by the attentions of Adam Driver, a GenY hipster documentarian. Stiller is also a wee bit inimidated by Driver, and there’s the rub. Their saner, more emotionally healthy significant others are played by Naomi Watts and Amanda Seyfried and there are plenty more rubs coming from their end also. (“I’m not sure I want to be rubbed by you at all” — Rex Harrison‘s Julius Caesar in Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s Cleopatra.)

I won’t spoil (I can’t — it’s 1:20 pm and the next film starts in 40 minutes) but While We’re Young is more than a little similar to Woody Allen‘s Crimes and Misdemeanors if you remove Woody’s unhappy marriage to whatsername plus the affair with Mia Farrow plus Martin Landau‘s affair-and-murder plot. Like Stiller’s character, Allen also played a less-than-successful, career-frustrated documentarian who’s been working for too long on a doc that leans heavily on interview footage of a respected elderly egghead figure (Peter Yarrow in Baumbach’s film, psychologist Martin Bergmann in Allen’s). Stiller resents the younger, less ethically constrained, destined-for-success Driver while Allen resented his wife’s glib, obnoxious, more successful older brother, played by Alan Alda. And both films end with Stiller and Allen’s character resigned and glumly acknowledging that the world doesn’t care about their ethical concerns about Driver or Alda, and is more than ready to cut them a break while it has little respect or affection for 40ish under-achievers.

Chris Rock‘s Top Five, which I also saw earlier today, is similarly influenced by Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories (’79), at least in terms of the broad strokes. But I can’t get into it because Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy starts at 2 pm and it’s 1:38 pm. I can at least say it’s Rock’s most engaging self-directed film ever, and one that comes closest to reflecting his persona or personality as well as his own life. It’s not strictly autobiographical but it’s apparently close enough.

I was planning to tap out a couple of stories after returning from last night’s The Theory of Everything premiere after-party but the wifi at my Beverley Street condo had a seizure — call it a mild stroke — which led to a diagnostic discussion with a Liquid Web tech-support guy plus the usual hand-wringings, wall-punchings (the unit doesn’t have a refrigerator) and frenzied attempts at restoring service. I went to bed with sore knuckles but the wifi was gloriously back in action when I awoke this morning at 7 am. Four films today — Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young ay 8:30 am, Chris Rock‘s Top Five at 10:45 am, Bill Pohlad‘s Love and Mercy (the Brian Wilson druggy meltdown in the ’70s film with with Paul Dano as young Wilson, John Cusack as the somewhat older Wilson, Paul Giamatti as Dr. Eugene Landy) at 2 pm and Andrea Di Stefano‘s Escobar: Paradise Lost (Benicio del Toro as Pablo Escobar) at 4:15 pm.

(l. to r.) Santa Barbara Film Festival director Roger Durling, The Theory of Everything star Eddie Redmayne, Deadline‘s Pete Hammond at last night’s after-party following pic’s premiere at Princess of Wales, which generates less-than-satisfactory sound.

(l. to r.) Chris Rock, Greta Gerwig, While We’re Young director Noah Baumbach at party for Rock’s Top Five, which suddenly became TIFF’s leading buzz film yesterday (and which I’ll be seeing later this morning right after the 8:30 am screening of Baumbach’s film). The other current high-intrigue title of the moment is The Good Lie, the Reese Witherspoon / Lost Boys of Sudan flick that relatively few have seen thus far, along with The Theory of Everything.

(l. to r.) Cedric “if you want tact, call a tactician” The Entertainer, Chris Rock, While We’re Young‘s Ben Stiller.

The Theory of Everything screenwriter Anthony McCarten.

The Theory of Everything composer Johann Jóhannsson, who last night told me something I’d never heard (or had forgotten), which is that Alex North composed a rejected score for 2001: A Space Odyssey, and that it’s purchasable online.

Antoine Fuqua and Denzel Washington‘s The Equalizer (Sony, 9.26) starts out coolly and unpretentiously and in no big hurry for the action to start. Which is okay with me. I was actually impressed by the fact that Tony Scott‘s Man on Fire (’04), still the high-water mark for Denzel whoop-ass, delayed the inciting incident (i.e., the kidnapping of Dakota Fanning) until the 45-minute mark.

We all know and accept what The Equalizer is basically about — Denzel bringing pain and death to a slew of bad guys. But I really need the action to be semi-plausible and that means Denzel has to be at least a little bit vulnerable, and I really don’t want the bad guys to just be heavily-armed, standard-issue muscle-bound jerkoffs, glaring and snarling and wearing the same beards and shaved heads and dressed in the usual black bad-guy apparel (black suits, black T-shirts, slick black boots)

When I sat down late this morning I said a silent prayer: “Please, Movie Godz…I know this thing isn’t going to be anywhere near as good as Man of Fire…Fuqua peaked or got lucky 13 years ago with Training Day and it’s been downhill ever since…he’s a much sloppier, less exacting and energetic director than Scott but if The Equalizer could almost as good as Man on Fire, I’ll be more or less content.”

Well, it’s about a third as good, if that. After a fairly promising first half-hour or so The Equalizer goes crazy and becomes less and less believable the bodies pile higher and higher. Denzel kills a lot of bad guys here…15, 20, does it matter? Man on Fire‘s Creasy did almost the same thing, but he operated with stealth and discretion. Here Denzel is playing a one-man army who can’t be killed, and it just goes on and on and on. Very disappointing. Later. It’s really not even worth reviewing this thing. It’s just slick garbage. I don’t mean to be dismissive but…well, actually I do.

To be entirely honest I wasn’t sure at first about James Marsh‘s The Theory of Everything (Focus Features, 11.7), the keenly anticipated biopic about British physicist and cosmologist Stephen Hawking. Eddie Redmayne‘s performance as Hawking is clearly a technical and emotional knockout on at least a couple of levels (which is quite a feat given the limitations on his emoting due to Hawking’s progressive ALS condition, which kicks in at the 25-minute mark); ditto Felicity Jones‘ internals as his wife Jane, whose book “Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen” is the basis of Anthony McCarten‘s screenplay. In any event I was respecting it, admiring it, and experiencing no significant problems. But I was nonetheless waiting for “it” to happen. And then it happened in the third act (I won’t divulge at this stage but I’m referring to three…well, two and a half great scenes) and all was well. Everything has now joined the select fraternity of leading, hot-shit contenders for Best Picture along with Birdman, The Imitation Game and Boyhood. The Equalizer beckons — I’ll write more about Marsh’s film later today or tonight.