I tried to get into yesterday’s public screening of Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young, which Variety‘s Peter Debruge enjoys and admires, but all the tickets had been given away. And today’s public screening doesn’t fit into today’s schedule so I’ll have to see it tomorrow. But for now…

Ben Stiller, Naomi Watts in Noah Baumbach’s While We’re Young.

“Though While We’re Young is primarily a comedy — and a very funny one at that, managing to be both blisteringly of-the-moment and classically zany in the same breath — Baumbach has bitten off several serious topics, for which laughter serves as the most agreeable way to engage.

“And so, anchored by Ben StillerThat N’s egoless portrayal of middle-age insecurity, the film examines how as a species, humans are naturally threatened by the younger generation, who possess an energy and an aptitude that daunts the more experienced. We can cower from it or embrace the fear. For Josh and Cornelia, the brush with youth re-energizes their marriage, even as it reveals the depths of Josh’s pettiness, once he realizes that Adam Driver‘s young filmmaker he was so willing to help may actually be on to something interesting.

At least two press and industry screenings tomorrow (i.e., Sunday, 9.7 — James Marsh‘s The Theory of Everything at 9:00 am and Antoine Fuqua‘s The Equalizer at 11:45 am, followed by a 6:15 pm public screening of Oren Moverman and Richard Gere‘s Time Out of Mind at the Elgin. I might squeeze in a fourth screening sometime during the afternoon, but what?

Black and White director-writer Mike Binder, star-producer Kevin Costner at gala screening after-party at West Bar, 510 West King Street, Toronto — Saturday, 9.6, 6:20 pm. Costner and I spoke for 10 or 15 minutes. Mutual respect and salutations. Again, my recently-posted review of Black and White and my q & a with Binder.

Time Out of Mind star Richard Gere, Variety‘s Scott Foundas during American Mavericks chat at Toronto’s Gould Hall — Saturday, 9.6, 8:35 pm.

Nightcrawler cdirector-writer Dan Gilroy, whom I spoke to this evening at Toronto’s Trump Hotel. I’ll post a piece about the conversation sometime tomorrow.

Black and White costars Octavia Spencer, Jillian Estell.

Theodore Melfi‘s St. Vincent (formerly St. Vincent de Van Nuys) is an emotonally engaging, nicely-crafted, perfectly agreeable dysfunctional family dramedy set in…where is it, Sheepshead Bay? And good old Bill Murray‘s performance as Vincent, a retired, lazy-ass, less-than-hygenic boozer with a good heart, is a juicy role and roughly on par with his performances in Rushmore and Lost in Translation. The film is good enough to not stand in the way of a possible Oscar nomination for Murray, but it isn’t quite substantial enough on its own terms to be nominated itself. But I enjoyed it. It never lifted me out of the my chair but it’s nice, it’s fine…nothing to complain about. And it’s very agreeable to see Melissa McCarthy give a steady, focused, mid-tempo performance that doesn’t involve acting like a lower-middle-class slob. It’s basically a louche-goofball-babysitting drama, and the 12 year-old kid (Jaeden Liberher) who more or less costars with Murray is on-target also. Smart and mature, stands his ground, doesn’t “kid” it up too much.

I sat down next to a know-it-all couple before this morning’s press and industry screening of Jason Reitman‘s Men, Women & Children. Late 40s, early 50s. A bit aloof and snooty, but I can roll with that. They either knew everything or were curious about everything…chattering away and vibrating with the spirit of journalistic engagement. When I heard her talk about Birdman I asked if she’d seen it locally, and she said she’d just come back from the Venice Film Festival. “Oh.” Anyway, around the hour mark they abandoned the Reitman film. They bolted, scrammed, ducked out like thieves. I’m presuming it wasn’t because one of them had a doctor’s appointment and the other wanted to offer comfort.

Ansel Elgort, Kaitlyn Dever in Jason Reitman’s Men, Women and Children.

I stayed but I’m afraid I agree. After the collapse of Labor Day Reitman needed at least a critical hit, but Men, Women & Children ain’t it. It probably won’t be much of a commercial hit either. It’s an evils-of-the-internet movie…the absorption, the screens, the banality, the sense of drifting, the absence of vitality…except it reflects the banality too well. Is is what it’s lamenting. It’s a relatively empty flick about several distracted, lazy, delusional people sitting around texting each other and talking selfies and surfing porn sites. New title: “Screens, Texts & Aridity of Existence.”

Your empty, passive life is reflected in your empty, passive texting and contemplation of screens, screens and more screens. Is that all there is, Peggy Lee?

I’ve slightly overslept (i.e., seven instead of five hours) but the schedule demands that I catch Jason Reitman‘s Men, Women and Children at 9:15 this morning instead of at a 6 pm public screening at the Ryerson…always see ’em sooner rather than later. I next have a 12 noon showing of Theodore Melfi‘s St. Vincent, a.k.a., the Bill Murray dramedy. The point is to clear the decks so I can see Noah Baumbach‘s While We’re Young at 7 pm rather than wait for a Monday press screening. It’s bad when things start piling up but it’s worse if you just slump and succumb. This is a metaphor for life and survival. Man up or get eaten.

Yesterday I re-saw Wild Tales for the fun and pleasure of it (yes, I indulged…sorry). Then came Michael Roskam‘s The Drop, a low-key neighborhood crime drama which struck me as agreeably flavorful and well-acted , especially by the always impressive Tom Hardy as an unassuming, seemingly-none-too-bright barkeep named Tom who surprises the audience but particularly Matthias Schoenaert‘s bullying bad-guy character in Act Three. It’s a somewhat…no, earnestly above-average, Friends of Eddie Coyle-ish crime drama that I’m looking forward to seeing a second time with subtitles as I was able to catch maybe 60% or 70% of the dialogue. Strongly accented Jersey-speak + slightly whispery, miscalibrated sound system at the Princess of Wales = give it another shot.

Dan Gilroy‘s Nightcrawler was the somersault head-turner of the evening. The Reitman screening starts in 33 minutes so I’ll just re-post the tweets. It’s a chilly, highly original urban psychodrama about a beyond-creepy sociopathic news video shooter who fits right in. The brazen, reckless, manic-wacko quality of Nightcrawler is what makes it cool and cultish — I was fascinated, appalled, thrilled. It’s strikingly soul-less, cold, creepy…and quite respectable for that. A news-video thriller with ice in its veins. Jake Gyllenhaal plays a modern-day antithesis of Travis Bickle on adderall. An uber sociopath, triple creepy, manic and very, very controlled and controlling. And yet Bickle had a lot of soul and sadness while Gyllenhaal’s cranked madman, by contrast, hasn’t a kernel of common humanity.

Three years ago I tried to explain the reasons why I hated the original Horrible Bosses. And now this new trailer for the sequel is renewing my loathing, or rather reminding me how much I despise Charlie Day‘s voice. Three years ago I described his character as “a little male hygienist with a high-pitched voice who probably has a schlong the size of a rook on a chess board.” I can’t roll with and certainly can’t laugh at puny, unmanly, pencil-dick guys. I have to believe or at least be effectively sold on the idea that they’re at least somewhat manly in all the usual ways. Short guys (example: Peter Dinklage) can be manly as hell. It’s all in the mind and more particularly “the size of the fight in the dog.”

With Robert Zemeckis‘s Forrest Gump opening on IMAX screens today (9.5), it’s been re-assessed by four critics — Ben Mankiewicz, Rotten Tomatoes’ Matt Atchity, TheWrap‘s Alonso Duralde and Christy Lemire — in a What The Flick? episode. Old news ’round these parts. I’ve been dumping on Gump for years, the last time in a 7.10.14 post called “How Do Those Chocolates Taste Now?”

A little less than three months ago I wrote a short wish piece about Criterion’s forthcoming Bluray of Jack Clayton‘s The Innocents (’61), or more precisely about how sublime it would be if Criterion was to do to The Innocents what Disney did with its Bluray remastering of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, i.e., eliminate the CinemaScope mumps effect. For years I’ve been lamenting this face-broadening, weight-adding syndrome that was caused by the use of old-style anamorphic CinemaScope lenses between ’53 through ’60. And now it appears that Criterion has stepped up to the plate and actually de-mumpified this horror classic. Screen captures provided by DVD Beaver‘s Gary W. Tooze make it clear that they’ve not only de-mumpified but added extra information to the framings. Hats off to Criterion’s Peter Becker and his team. This is the noblest and coolest thing they’ve done since releasing that triple-aspect-ratio Bluray of On the Waterfront, which pointed out the general wrongness and fraudulence of Bob Furmanek‘s 1.85-favoring theology once and for all.

I loved and respected almost everything about the late Joan Rivers except for the work she had done over the last decade or so. So I’m posting these shots as an affectionate reminder of the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s Joan. Her God-given face was wonderful — anxious, open, often fraught with vulnerable emotion — and I really missed it when it went away, or more precisely was smothered under implants. Rivers had a great life but also a great face, once. No offense, just saying.

Sometime during last night’s Toronto Film Festival after-party for The Judge (Warner Bros., 10.14), director David Dobkin told a journalist that he’d quite deliberately inserted some humor and audience-pleasing moments to balance out the somber stuff. I submitted to The Judge early last evening at a press screening, and the levity and the humor (which I knew was coming) didn’t feel all that irksome. I wasn’t enthralled by the film but I didn’t hate it either. Well, it pissed me off now and then. I particularly despised the urine-on-the-leg-in-the-men’s-room gag in the very beginning, which is in the trailer.

You always have to ask yourself “how would Robert Bresson have handled this scene?” If Bresson had been born a bit later in the 20th Century and had decided to accept an occasional Hollywood gig to help finance his French-soil art films, and if Robert Downey, Jr. had persuaded him to direct The Judge instead of Dobkin, there would been a moment when Downey asks Bresson if he’s cool with his Chicago attorney character whipping around from a urinal and peeing on the leg of the prosecutor. Bresson would have sighed and looked at Downey with a mixture of Christian pity and contempt and said, “Well, look, Bob…c’mon. We all understand shorthand, but leg-peeing by the lead character during the first five minutes? You know what coarse and unsubtle are, I presume? Why did you hire me? To obediently shoot the film you have in your head or to class things up a bit? If you want a leg-peeing scene you should have hired David Dobkin.”